Summer Job
by jmr27
Summary: Sam is working a summer job as an intern for Jessica's dad, the local Sheriff, when John Winchester shows up in cuffs. The FBI comes to town, starting a chain reaction of events that Sam can't escape and prompting Jessica to ask questions about a past Sam thought he had left behind for good. Pre-Series, Stanford Era. COMPLETE.
1. Intern

AUTHORS NOTE: What if John got caught while trying to keep an eye on Sam while he was in college? The first chapter is a one-shot that can stand alone, if you just want a short story. Or you can keep reading and see how the adventure progresses! Please review and let me know what you love and what you hate about this story!

Disclaimer: I don't own Supernatural or any of these characters.

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 **Summer Job**

Coffee, gunpowder, and dusty old files, the combination of scents was so familiar Sam felt the tension drain from his shoulders. He hated being here in the Sherriff's office, and he hated that he hated it. There were too many old memories in places like this. Memories of waiting on a bench, too small then for his feet to touch the floor, kicking his legs while he waited for Dean to post Dad's bail so that they could get out of here. Or clutching the back of Dean's jacket tight and making himself as small as possible while Dean asked if Dad had turned up in any of the local hospitals, or morgues, because he hadn't called for a few days. Men in uniform and police offices meant fear, or running.

They had been asked to leave town more than once by men in blue or tan uniforms, men who smiled at everyone else but had nothing but hard looks for Sam and his family. Sam had hidden from police, wiped crime scenes free of prints, even led them on a car chase to keep them away from a vengeful spirit so that Dad would have time to dig up the grave.

Sam had no pleasant memories associated with law enforcement of any kind, so the familiar smells of home were unexpected no matter how often he walked into the Lake Co. Sherriff's Dept. Something in the back of his mind still screamed, Run! Hide! It still surprised him, even after walking through these doors every day for the past month, how much like home this felt.

The men and women in uniform smiled when they greeted him. The woman filling the coffee machine handed Sam a mug already mixed to his personal preferences. There was even a desk with his name on it.

The nametag was made out of tented paper, nothing permanent, because this was just a summer internship and nothing like the job Sam wanted some day. He would never have even considered it, if not for Jess. The idea of being near her all summer had overcome his deeply ingrained fear of law enforcement.

But then, he wouldn't have gotten the job without her, either. Jess' father was the Sherriff and he had basically created the spot just to get to know Sam a little better. He knew Sam was thinking about ring shopping, and hadn't decided if he liked this idea yet.

Sherriff Moore was a tall, lean man with a friendly face that could become stern at a moment's notice. Today he was smiling over a stack of folders which landed on Sam's desk with a thump. Sam's job mostly consisted of filing and answering phones, since he wasn't allowed to carry a gun or assist with any real police work. "Morning, Winchester."

"Good morning, sir. How's Mrs. Moore?"

"Doing well, son. How's my girl?"

Sam's face brightened with a genuine smile. "Jess is great. She was mixing up cookies when I left. We're coming over for dinner tonight, I think."

Sherriff Moore grinned and patted Sam's shoulder. "Mm, Jessica does make good cookies. My wife has a pot roast in the oven already. She got a bigger one this time."

Sam remembered the last family dinner, when he had polished off everything that Mrs. Moore had been hoping to save for leftovers. Sam grinned. "Sounds good, sir."

"Have those files copied for the State's Attorney by noon, please. I'd like you to drop them off over your lunch break."

"Yes sir!" Sam nearly bounced in his seat. He'd met several attorneys as they came through with subpoena's for files. Several had expressed interest in offering a summer internship for next year.

Sam could see his whole life stretching before him, a house, a wife, two kids and a white picket fence, where pot roast was the most exciting feature of the day.

"Hey, Winchester!" A sharp voice broke into his daydream.

Sam didn't even look up from his files at the sound of Deputy Mann's voice. Sharp and imperative, he made Sam want to dig in his heels and be obstinate just because he expected to be obeyed without questions. Sam believed in asking questions, as many as possible, and knew Deputy Mann's request would be trouble before he even heard what it was.

"Come help me book this guy!"

Sam's eyes narrowed, and he shook his head and continued flipping through his files. "Not my job description. I file papers, remember?"

"Don't worry, college boy. I just need you to push a pen and take prints. I busted my hand on this guy's jaw."

Sam finally looked up to see Mann waving a very swollen hand in his direction. Sam blinked, and swallowed hard, his stomach suddenly very unhappy with the coffee he'd just put in it. The man standing next to Mann did have a puffy jaw, alright. His eyes widened slightly when he saw Sam, but otherwise gave no sign of recognition.

Sam's head snapped back around to hide the flush rising to his cheeks. _No! This can't be happening! Not him. Not here_. Sam shoved the files bank into a wobbly stack and turned around to face the prisoner. There was no mistaking the tall frame, grizzled features, and salt-and-pepper hair. It had been over two years, but Sam would never forget that face.

Dad.

"What-ah-what did this guy do?" Sam stammered as he stumbled forward, banging his shin against a table leg in the process.

"I caught him breaking and entering. He was trying to squat in an old shack off of the highway."

Sam made a mental review of the headlines in this area for the past few months. There had been no murders, no suspicious deaths, nothing that would bring a hunter to San Mateo. John Winchester must have been passing through on his way somewhere else.

Sam ducked his eyes as he got closer to the booking desk, but Dad-no John, it would be easier that way, just think of him as John-followed his every move with a wondering stare.

Sam felt the flush in his cheeks grow hotter, and he could hear John's voice in the back of his head. _So, Sammy, you don't want to hunt? You want to be safe? And you're working for the Sherriff?_

 _I'm filing papers and meeting attorneys who could give me a job!_ Sam bit his lip to keep from shouting the answer, even though John had never asked the question.

"Here." Deputy Mann shoved a stack of papers and an inkpad across the desk to Sam.

Sam fumbled to un-cap the pen, then started to fill in the card.

"Ah-hem." John cleared his throat and Sam quickly scribbled backwards over the J and half of an O he had written. Right. He couldn't put Dad's real name on the paperwork.

John raised his eyebrows, waiting to see what Sam would do next.

 _This isn't supposed to be my job!_ Sam took a deep breath and bit out, "Name?"

Deputy Mann tossed three fake ID's onto the counter. Maguilicuddy, Mertz, Ricardo. Dad always did have a thing for _I Love Lucy_.

"Just put down John Doe," Mann said at the same time Jon said, "Mertz."

Sam glanced between Mann and John, and wrote in "John Doe."

Sam could feel Dad's eyes on him as he fumbled through the rest of the paperwork. John didn't crack once, no hint of recognition, no warmth in those hard eyes. Sam kept his own eyes on his paperwork, letting Mann do the questioning and writing down whatever the Deputy said, even when it didn't match John's answers about his age, weight, etc. After Mann had decided that John was a three-hundred fifty pound, 60-year old male of mixed Latino and Caucasian descent, Sam wasn't sure who he wanted to punch more. Dad, for those laughing eyes, or Mann, for just being himself.

"There, it's done." Sam shoved the paperwork back at Mann. Mann shook his head and shoved it back.

"Fingerprints, kid." Mann tapped the ink pad.

Sam stared at John, who held up his cuffed hands and allowed Sam to roll each finger across the black ink and then over the card.

"Press the outer edge, then roll the finger," John muttered under his breath when Sam hesitated.

"I don't need your help," Sam snarled.

"Hm." Was John's only response when the print smudged.

It took three attempts before he got a card of clear prints, free of smudges. Sam waved the card to help it dry and glared at John. John's eyes flicked from Sam, to his cuffed hands, to the ring of keys hanging from Mann's belt. The meaning was clear.

Sam felt the old, familiar anger boiling up, and shook his head. John pinned him with his eyes.

 _You might not be a hunter, but you are still family and you will not let me rot in jail._

Sam just held up his hands and marched away. _No, Dad, I'm done and you're on your own._

Sam dropped into his chair, rubbing the back of his neck, sure that John's glare would burn through his scalp if it could.

 _He's got to have lock picks in his pockets. Dean is around here somewhere, he'll bust him out._ Sam leaned forward and put his hands over his eyes, crying inside, _Why me?_

"Hello Miss Moore!" Mann's voice rang out over the office again.

Sam's head snapped around, and this time he smiled. Jess. She stood there framed in the doorway, blonde hair spilling over her shoulders, a paper bag in her hands and a smile on her face.

"Sam! There you are." She didn't even notice John, who stared wide-eyed as Jess strolled across the office and dropped into Sam's lap and kissed him firmly. "Hey, are you ok? You're really tense."

Sam was all too aware of John watching as she cupped his cheek in her hand. He gently removed it and sat up straighter, so that she had to step back off his lap. "Hi, Jess, what brings you here?"

She dropped a brown paper bag on his desk. "You forgot your lunch this morning. And I thought you might like these." She produced a plate of freshly baked cookies, their steam fogging up the saran-wrap cover.

For a moment, Sam forgot about his Dad, about Deputy Mann or anyone else. He let Jess feed him a cookie and this time didn't pull away from her kiss. It wasn't until she was gone, fifteen minutes later, that Sam looked back at the booking desk. Deputy Mann was sitting there with an ice pack on his hand, getting a lecture about proper procedure form Sherriff Moore, and John Winchester was gone.

A quick glance at the security camera's assured Sam that John hadn't slipped out the back. There he was, sitting in a cell, twiddling his thumbs and looking unworried. _He must have a plan. Dean must be nearby. I don't need to do anything._

Sherriff Moore came over to Sam's desk, looking ready to rain thunder and lightning on someone.

Sam's shoulders hunched reflectively, and he looked up at is boss with big eyes. "Sir?"

"If Deputy Mann makes another request of you, do not obey it. Come directly to me."

Relief rolled over Sam and his shoulders straightened. "Yes, sir! I told him it's not my job."

"And you were right. Deputy Mann completely ignored proper procedure. I don't care if his hand is fractured, that guy could still sue us for excessive use of force." He tipped his head toward the jail cells. "Go on, get out of here. The State's Attorney is waiting for those files."

"Yes, sir!" Sam happily gathered up his files and his lunch, leaving Jessica's fresh cookies behind for later.

When Sam got back, he palmed a key and went to check the jail cells, but John Winchester was nowhere to be seen.

"Sherriff let him go; he agreed not to press charges if the guy agreed not to sue."

"Oh." Sam slipped the key back where he had found it, oddly surprised at the surge of disappointment he felt. He didn't want anyone here to know who his father was. He didn't want the family business anywhere near this new life he was building for himself. But part of him felt like a giddy five-year-old brining his crayon-colored artwork home from kindergarten for Dad and Dean to see. He wanted to show them, he wanted them to see everything he had built and accomplished.

Sam shook his head and returned to his desk. He reached for the cookie plate, but it wasn't there. In its place was an old picture, one of John and Mary, arms wrapped around each other, smiling. Sam had never seen his father smile like that in real life. He flipped it over and on the back was a short note. _Congratulations._

Was this Dad's way of accepting his choice? Sam fingered his phone. Dad's number was still programmed in. It would be so easy to call, to talk, to tell John about his new life. About Jessica.

Until the next fight, until the next hunt, until John inevitably demanded his help again. Sam thought about how easily he had taken the key to the cells. He'd meant to slip it into John's hand, so he could let himself out at night. Sam had been about to put all of this in jeopardy just to let his father out of jail. He thought of pot roast and cookies and Jessica's warm smile.

No.

He let go of his phone, tucked the picture into his pocket, and went back to work.

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Love it? Hate it? Let me know!

Chapter 2 will give us some insight into John's point of view during this exchange!


	2. What was John thinking?

AUTHOR'S NOTE: Now we get to see what brought John to California, and how he felt about seeing Sam again!

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 **What was John Thinking?**

John Winchester was used to dealing with law enforcement. Police, FBI, county sheriff, even CIA once. It didn't matter who they were, he kept his cool and handled the situation the best way possible.

Sure, so he'd had to call on Jim or Dean to bail him out once or twice. Not every situation was negotiable. But he should have been able to handle this novice deputy. He'd almost had him, too. The man was going to have a magnificent bruise on his jaw, and his broken fingers would keep his hand useless for a month. John had expected the deputy to play by the rules, but he'd been nervous and rushed John.

John fumed and wriggled in the handcuffs as the sheriff's car pulled into the office parking lot. He should have handled the whole thing better. He should have heard the man coming, and vanished. He should have disarmed him first, instead of taking his frustration out on the man's jaw and hand.

Dammit, he shouldn't have been here in Lake county at all!

He should have spent one night in Palo Alto, sleeping in his truck and spending an hour or two staking out Sam's dorm to make sure the boy was alright. Like he usually did whenever he was within five hour's drive of the school. But this time, he couldn't find Sam.

He wasn't in his dorm-and there was only one open for the summer session. John had staked out the place three nights in a row with no luck, and had finally flashed his FBI badge just to learn that Sam wasn't taking any summer courses, wasn't in residence anywhere in the city.

It felt like the day he'd lost track of Sam and Dean in the grocery store, running panicked through the aisles, only to find them building a tower out of cookie boxes. Only the State of California was a lot larger than a grocery store, and it had been two weeks now.

The school registrar had told the "FBI" agent that Sam Winchester was earning internship credit over the summer. Somewhere local, but they couldn't specify where. Apparently, that data entry wouldn't happen for another two weeks, as there was a paperwork backlog.

Which left Jon to search the surrounding towns in an ever-widening spiral, but still no hint of Sam. He'd checked every law office and courthouse he came across, but still nothing.

So he hadn't been thinking very clearly when the puffed-up deputy wandered into the old shack he'd found to bunk in, and ordered him to leave or else.

John mentally cursed himself for all of the wrong steps he'd made to get to this point. If he'd sent Dean to Palo Alto with Sam, this would not be an issue. But he'd wanted to keep Dean close, and sharp with constant hunting. If he'd let Sam go without a fight, maybe he would know where his son was right now. Hell, if he'd just learned the names of one or two of those friends he'd seen Sam with over the past two years, he'd have someone to call.

But he hadn't. So here he was, cuffed in the back of a cop car, waiting to be thrown into jail. Again.

The deputy opened the door and pulled John out of the car. John contemplated taking him down then and there, but he spotted two other deputies across the parking lot, and knew he wouldn't get far.

Besides, with the bruise already forming on his own jaw, he had a pretty good idea that he could get out of this place before nightfall.

"Move it!" The deputy pushed John forward, but John didn't move his feet any faster. There was no need to make life easy for this man.

"I can break the other one, if you like," John offered in a low voice, as the deputy pushed him through the doorway.

"You'll get what's coming to you!" the deputy grumbled.

"Hah!" John scoffed. He was pretty sure it would be the other way around.

"Hey, Winchester!"

John's head snapped around at the sound of his name. The deputy had already been through his wallet and knew that none of the Ids in it were real, and none said "Winchester."

"Come help me book this guy!"

Clearly, the deputy was talking to someone else. John saw a tall young man across the office, head bent over a pile of paperwork. That tousled hair and the lean frame looked so familiar. John was used to keep track of his boys as mere outlines in the dark, when the moon was high and the hunt was on. He didn't need to see the face to know. Relief rolled over him.

 _Sam._

For a moment their eyes met. John saw a wave of emotion cross Sam's face before he schooled his features to a careful neutral.

 _You need to work on your reflexes._

Sam approached carefully, clearly nervous. He wasn't wearing a deputy's uniform, just a polo and khaki shorts; business casual suitable for a hot summer day. His mouth was set, and every bit of his posture screamed at John to please, please keep silent. Don't let anyone find out this scruffy drifter in handcuffs is my father. Don't ruin this nice, new life I've got.

Well, he wouldn't, though a million questions rose in his mind, the first of which was, _You wanted to leave hunting and be 'safe', so you chose an internship in law enforcement? What's the difference?_

He could feel the force of Sam's glare daring him to question his summer career choice, and bit his tongue.

An argument here would not be a good idea. Besides, it would give the deputy more reason to pick on Sam, which he clearly did far too much of. Waving imperiously and giving orders like he was the Sherriff himself, the deputy marched Sam through the booking process. John tried to give a few helpful hints when it came to the finger-printing, but Sam was too shook up to take any notice. He never did like to listen to instructions, instead insisting on learning everything the hard way. Not like Dean, who waited, watched, and performed exactly as he was told to.

They made the perfect pair, Dean and Sam. One willing to follow orders and never asking questions, reliable and capable, the other seeing every angle and asking questions that might otherwise get missed. It had been a blow to the family team, losing Sam.

John waited until he could catch Sam's eye, and pointedly looked from the keys to his handcuffs. _Come on, son, lend a hand?_

Sam just met him with a flat, cold stare. _No, Dad,_ his look said. _You got yourself into this, you can get yourself out._

John had lost count of the number of times he'd told Sam that very same thing. Well, the boy had learned the lesson, at any rate.

Sam retreated back to his desk, clearly relieved. John turned his attention back to the deputy as the man shoved him again, this time toward the jail cell, but paused as the main doors opened behind them.

"Hello, Miss Moore."

A young woman with blonde hair cascading down her shoulders soon in the doorway. Framed by the sunlight, for a moment she looked exactly like Mary. John's heart skipped a beat.

"Deputy." The young lady brushed past, not seeing either of them, her eyes fixed on the gangly figure with his head bent over a stack of papers. She went straight to Sam, leaned in, placed a kiss on his cheek. All of the tension melted from Sam's posture. Neither of them noticed the stares or snickers from others in the office. They were totally lost in their own little world.

John realized he was holding his breath, and let it out with a huff. The smile on Sam's face, the ease of their interactions. If they weren't married yet, they would be soon. John knew that look, knew that feeling.

And the girl, just walking in as if she owned the place. This must be her home, possibly a parent's work place. So. That explained the choice of internship.

John could have stood there forever, lost in a cascade of memories, but the annoying deputy hustled him away.

He was in the cell for a total of a half hour. The Sherriff came to see him, took one look at the red mark on his jaw, and passed an ice pack through the bars. Judging by the man's slim frame, round features, and blonde hair, he was the relation that tied Sam's girl to this place. Ah-ha!

It took a moment for John to realize what the man was saying.

"…inappropriate action will be dealt with internally. That being said, we can't have people trespassing or squatting. If I find you on that property again, you'll go before the judge."

John blinked. He'd prepared a speech, he'd been ready to be surly and angry and quote all sorts of statues. But the other man had beaten him to it.

"So, you let me go, I don't sue for use of excessive force. But I still need to get out of town."

"That about sums it up, yes."

"Deal." John held out his hand, and the Sherriff shook it firmly. No hesitation or overcompensation there. John approved. If his daughter was anything like him, this would be a good match.

If they were meeting under any other circumstances, this would be the start of a great conversation. Trading stories about their children growing up through the years. Trading observations about their fears and worries for the young couple in the future. Comparing notes on their personalities, and how they would complement one another.

John remembered his mother having such a conversation with Deanna Campbell, back when he had first introduced them. Before the tragic night that took both Mary's parents from them.

But John knew better than to let his real name and purpose here be known. He was not wanted, that much was clear. He did not belong in this sunny place, not anymore. He belonged to the night, to the hunt and to a world that these people could never imagine.

He'd thought Sam belonged there too, that none of them could ever escape. This all felt like a fairy-tale, in that high-quality color in newer movies that was sharper even than reality.

Besides, if he started asking questions about the Sherriff's daughter, he would land back in that cell in less time than in had taken to snap Deputy Mann's fingers.

John walked through the open door in silence. No one paid much attention as he left, the Sherriff content in the knowledge that John wanted to leave as quickly as possible. He had no reason to think the drifter would linger.

John reached hastily into his pocket and pulled out a picture. Mary, and a man he barely recognized any more, wrapped around each other, smiling.

 _She's going to die_ , a voice in the back of his head whispered. _The demons will come for him, and she will burn. He's killed her just by loving her._

John laid the picture on the desk in trade for the plate of cookies.

That night, he ate them slowly, letting them melt on his tongue like bits of heaven, full of memory. They kept him company through the night, parked in his truck, watching while the neighborhood slept. He ate and watched, contemplating the spacious two-story home he'd followed Sam to at the end of his shift. Sam had ridden home with the Sherriff, to be greeted by the lovely blonde and her mother at the door. Family. Safety. So.

 _They could all burn, if I leave him here. The yellow-eyed demon will come for him again. I have to get him out of here. To save lives._

It would be so easy, to burst in with gun drawn and show the family exactly where Sam came from. He could have Sam back on the road with him in short order, if he only told the boy the truth.

 _But if I do, I destroy any chance he has of keeping this._

John contemplated the silent house, and ate another cookie.

 _I've been honing my skills for twenty years. I know more about demons than any hunter alive. I can find that thing before it finds my boy._

John brushed the crumbs from his lap and turned the key in the ignition, his mind made up. He'd lingered long enough. It was time to hunt.

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NOTE: Hope you enjoyed this chapter!

Chapter 3 will take us in a new direction. Sam gets more than he bargained for when the FBI insists that every able-bodied man in the Sheriff's Dept. help with a local man hunt.


	3. Unexpected Job

Author's note: Ok, so I meant this to be a one-shot of Sam seeing John, and vice versa. But there was so much more there, so here you go! The misadventures of Sam Winchester while working for Jessica's father will continue. It will take a few chapters but we will see John again, and Dean. So please stick with it and let me know what you think in the reviews!

Also, sorry about any typos. I'm really bad at catching those...

New note: Yes, I've updated this story, it's just some simple editing, no major story changes. Apparently my section breaks were not appearing on the documents I posted, and there fore scene transitions were not showing up. I've tried doing it a different way. Hopefully this will help the story flow better...Hopefully they'll show up this time...

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 **Chapter 3: The Unexpected Job**

The Lake County Sherriff's department was flurry of activity. Deputies and administrative staff scurried to prepare for _them_ to arrive. They'd been given only two hour's notice. Every deputy was on duty, even those usually worked the night shift. Drooping in their chairs, wearing rumpled uniforms, eyes open in the too-wide look one got when the brain wanted sleep but there was too much adrenaline to allow it. The regular day shift was scrambling to make sure all weapons were cleaned and ready for use, several practicing their draw and their aim with finger-guns, as they didn't have time to go out to the range for proper practice. The administrative staff scrambled to get copies of the emergency briefing circulated and get their files tidied and out of the way, and push through the paperwork to clear any prisoners from the jail cell block set aside for _them_.

Sam navigated the maze of activity nimbly, distributing fliers and working the copy machine like an old pro. When that was done and there was nothing left, he circulated with the coffee pot, refilling mugs. The anticipation in the room was palatable, hearts hammering, toes tapping, fingers drumming against any available surface. Everyone was tense, excited, hopeful and scared at the same time. They were going to see action soon, at least they hoped.

Sam knew the feeling all too well. He was familiar with the fire of adrenaline in the veins, although he had long ago been taught to channel it into a calm readiness. His hand alone was steady, his heartbeat not elevated in the slightest. He watched the room around him grow more excited as the moment approached, and savored the calm within. He knew that whatever happened, he would not see action today. He was an intern, in khakis, no gun allowed. The rest would go as soon as _they_ arrived, engage in the hunt, bring down the bad guy-or not. But Sam would have no part of it. He might see the aftermath, when they returned to the office for celebration or consolation. But he would not join them in between. He was safe.

Jess burst out of her dad's office and came to stand by him, her fingers curling through his to grip his hand tight. "They're almost here." Her eyes sparkled. They both ought to have been a bit scared, with the FBI's most wanted camped out in a hotel not five miles away. But they had plans to occupy themselves when the office was empty…

The doors burst open and a small army of men in dark jackets with bright yellow letters denoting FBI spilled into the small Sherriff's office. The wave parted to allow one man through, this one in a suit instead of an official jacket. He put his hands on his hips and struck and imposing pose while surveying the room with grim disappointment.

Sam glared out of pure reflex. He could tell before this guy spoke a word what type he was. Sam was SO happy he would not be along for this particular 'hunt'.

"Welcome to Maybury, boys. Sheriff!"

"Agent Henrickson!" Sheriff Moore stepped forward to shake the FBI agent's hand.

"Is this everybody?"

Sheriff Moore nodded. "Yes, sir."

Henrickson scowled. "I thought you had five more men."

"Three are on vacation, and I'm letting two sleep so they can cover the night shift."

"What happens here at night? Sheriff, I said I need all your men! This is a mob assassin from Chicago. He's efficient, he's brutal, and he's been evading us for ten years!"

Sheriff Moore stood his ground. "This is what you get."

Henrickson glared at the Sheriff for a moment, then turned to address the assembled crowd. "This guy is going to be out of town before dark, so we act now or we miss our opportunity and he vanishes for another ten years. We will have a very short briefing, and then we go."

Henrickson looked expectantly at Sheriff Moore, who gestured toward the conference room. "This way, agent."

Sam sat back, watching the mass of people file into the briefing room. Really, between FBI and Sheriff's Dept, there weren't that many. Not when it came to taking down a mob hit man, who was supposedly hiding out in a local hotel.

Henrickson paused at the door as the last staff filed past him, and glared at Sam. "What are you waiting for? Move it."

Sheriff Moore stepped up quickly. "Oh, no, he's not active duty. He's an intern."

"I don't care what he is. I was supposed to have five more men. Your support staff will be crowd control. You know, keep the halls clear of women and children and idiot teenagers."

The entire office watched the two men glare at each other. Sheriff Moore was used to being in charge of his own little kingdom here, but he knew when he was outranked. Agent Henrickson did not waver. After a moment, he snapped, "We're wasting time, Sheriff. Get the rest of the team in here."

Sheriff Moore beckoned Sam and the two other office assistants forward.

"Daddy!" Jess squealed in protest.

"He'll be fine, honey. He'll sit with the hotel clerk and make sure no one goes near the dangerous areas. I promise." Sherriff Moore kissed Jessica on the forehead and motioned toward the door. "Why do you go home and wait with your mother. Sam?"

Sam stared at the open door and the impatient glare of the FBI agent. Suddenly, the old fire and fear were back, and his heart hammered. No!

"Yes, sir." Sam swallowed hard and stepped into the briefing room.

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The motel was like any of the hundred or so the Winchesters had stayed in over the years. It boasted a sign with broken lighting, threadbare carpets that once boated bright but tacky patterns, and a settled-in layer of grime that felt like a second skin. Sam knew the kind of place well. No one asked questions, cash was accepted, and the ice machine only worked half the time. He squirmed and paced under the watchful eye of the SWAT officer who had been stationed here with him. Sam's job was to guard the front and keep innocent civilians out of the way while the FBI did their job. The front desk manager didn't like it, but agreed that losing a few customers was better than the bad press a dead one would generate.

A rusty mini-van pulled into the drive. Sam went out the main doors to wave them away. The driver, a GPS in one hand and giant cola in the other, was not happy to be told to move on. But when the SWAT officer started advancing toward them, he hurriedly turned the wheel and went back out the way he had come.

All was quiet, and Sam hoped it would stay that way. This whole thing was bringing everything back, everything he had left behind, everything he wanted to be done with. But it also brought up an old ache he thought he had gotten over. It was moments like these when he did not want strangers at his back, a big man in black armor with even his face covered who had no interest in Sam's well-being, and knew nothing about him. Sam wanted Dean, with his easy grin and sarcastic attitude, who would have found away to to make Sam laugh by now, thus dispelling the butterflies in his stomach, if only momentarily. Dad, with twenty years of experience and confidence that could not be matched. No matter how many times they fought, Sam knew his father would never let anything truly bad happen to him. It had been part of the fear, all those years hunting, that if he slipped up, Dean or Dad would pay the price.

But right now, he would give anything to have Dad's solid presence beside him.

The silence ticked on. Occasionally, the SWAT officers radio emitted a burst of chatter as the men got into position. The plan was to overwhelm the target with so much firepower he wouldn't put up a fight.

The SWAT officer-Sam didn't catch his name-cocked his head at something. Sam paused to listen. The familiar thumps of a fight in progress echoed through the thin walls.

Clearly the plan hadn't worked. Strickler was fighting back. A window burst overhead, shattering class across the entryway. Sam ducked back inside. The SWAT officer's radio exploded with noise as a scream echoed overhead.

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"Stop him now! Bring him down! I don't care how, kill him if you have to!" Henrickson bellowed into his radio.

Panicked voices crackled through Henrickson's earpiece. He heard screams and shouts, echoed in real-time down the halls of the worn-out motel. Threadbare carpet, dingy lights and thin walls that did nothing to dampen the sound of the hit man, Eugene Strickler, as he took down Henrickson's assault team as if they were kindergarteners and he the eight grade bully ruling the playground.

"I've got him!"

"No! Man down!"

So it went as Strickler, head of the top-ten most wanted for the past decade, tore apart ten years of work in ten minutes with nothing but a knife. The man wasn't much to look at, 5'5" but every bit of him hard muscle and carefully trained skill. His kill list numbered over a hundred known victims, and it was growing. Henrickson's head snapped around, following the sound, estimating the path of travel based on the motel maps he had studied. The guy was headed for the front door.

Henrickson ran. He desperately tried to remember who he had posted near that exit. It had been that intern, long and lanky with puppy dog eyes that hid a vicious attitude problem. Henrickson had brought him along just to make a point and put the Sheriff back in his place. His job was to keep any new comers out of the motel until the action was over.

One look at the mutinous glare behind those dewy eyes and Henrickson knew he had a hothead on his hands. This was the kind of man who could flip to rage at a moment. He hated dealing with those types, especially when it came to interrogation. You never knew what to expect from them. This kid, he could be sensible, hang back, even hide behind the counter. Or he could get stupid, jump in to help just to prove a point, and get himself killed real quick.

"Keep all civilians away form the main entrance! That's where he's headed."

"Already here boss. I-" the sound of the last standing SWAT agent's cry was cut off abruptly by static.

Henrickson ran faster. He stopped and dropped into a shooting stance just outside the lobby doors. Over the barrel of his gun, he could see the SWAT officer sprawled across the floor, blood leaking from under his armpit, the softest, most vulnerable spot in his armor.

"Get out of my way, kid."

"You're not going anywhere. I know how many people you've killed."

 _It'll be one more real soon if you don't get out of the way, kid._ Henrickson inched around the corner, but there was no clear shot. The intern had his back to him, blocking any clear line of fire at Strickler. It didn't matter that the kid had over a foot of extra height and a good seventy-five pounds of muscle on the other man. There was only one way this could end.

Strickler charged, a bloody knife aimed at the intern's heart. Somehow, he missed. The kid leapt into action without hesitation. His puppy-dog face was now set in a vicious mask, no trace of innocence left. They moved as equals across the room, as if dancing together instead of engaged in a competition to the death. Henrickson heard men come up behind him, heard the astonished gasps.

"Look at that kid move!"

"Where'd he learn to do that?"

"That's a move they only teach in black ops!"

"This is not a heavyweight prizefight! You get a shot, you take it!" Henrickson growled, but he didn't need to hear the protest from his men to know that would be impossible. Both fighters were moving too fast.

And then it was over. Henrickson barely saw the move coming. One moment Strickler's knife was diving toward the kid's chest again, and then he was staring at the blade sticking out of his own heart. Blood puddled in his mouth, and he collapsed backwards. In one smooth motion, the intern had snatched the blade, snapped Strickler's wrist, and turned the entire attack back on his attacker. It was a move that was taught with only one purpose; to kill. That was no wresting or boxing move, not meant for display or fun. It was pure military, with economy of energy and motion that was drilled and drilled into a man so he could kill in a moment, turn around, and do it again in the next breath.

The intern kept hold of the knife, pulling it out of Strickler's body as he fell and completing his turn in one motion. His eyes scanned the room for further danger. He paused, stared at the line of FBI with guns pointed at him. He assessed that they were not a threat and turned to look down at Strickler as the man hit the ground. The intern held the knife high, still ready for his opponent to move again. Strickler's body shuddered, but his life was gone already. The intern checked the body professionally, and once assured that he would not move again, let the knife drop.

"Where did you learn to do that, kid?" Henrickson lowered his gun and stepped forward carefully. Most men were skittish after the first serious encounter, after their first kill. But this kid's hands were steady. He looked totally unfazed. Either the shock hadn't set in yet, or he'd done this before.

The intern ignored him, brushing past to kneel by the fallen SWAT officer. He immediately began administering proper first aid and shouted for bandages and an ambulance.

Henrickson turned to see the Sheriff glaring at him.

"Well, your boy did pretty well, Sheriff. What's his name and where did you find him?"

"That's Sam Winchester, Agent. He's pre-law at Stanford."

"Pre-law, huh? He can do far more than that. I'll have to send a recruitment officer to meet with him. Of course, the CIA might beat me to it. Did you see that?"

Sherriff Moore had the look of a man who had been hit over the head with a two-by-four. "Yes, I saw it."

"Well, he's been awfully cozy with your daughter. Where'd he learn moves like that?"

Sheriff Moore's face darkened. "I have no idea." Clearly, he did not like that answer. He took a step forward with a look that said, _I mean to find out_.

Henrickson held up a hand to stop the Sheriff, staring at the intern, Winchester. The boy had his hand buried in the victim's armpit, and the blood flow had stopped. Winchester didn't wriggle for flinch at the feel of blood and flesh under his fingers. He didn't balk at the idea of performing basic field surgery on another man. He was calm, steady, no trace of shakiness or rookie jitters.

Because he wasn't a rookie. Whatever he'd been before landing at Stanford pre-law, he'd seen action before.

Sam held his fingers steady, despite the slippery mess of blood coating them. He focused on the man in front of him. If the EMS got here soon enough, and they had blood for a transfusion, the man might survive. If not, he could bleed out, no matter how hard Sam tried to stop the flow.

He felt amazingly calm in the middle of it all. He hadn't thought about it, when Strickler came into the room and took the SWAT man down. He'd reacted on pure reflex, he was still moving on reflex, trying not to think. He kept his eyes on his hands, that was the safest place for them. If he looked sideways, he would see the man's slack face and wonder about his life, his family, and who would be hurt if Sam failed here. If he looked up, he would see everyone staring at him. He had worked so hard to fit in here, and now this could ruin it all.

Then EMS arrived, and four sets of hands moved in to replace his own. Sam stepped back, his job done. Now there was nothing to shield him from the questioning stares. Sam turned to face them.

"Sheriff Moore."

"Are you ok? Are you hurt?"

Sam stared down at the blood covering his shirt, and shook his head. "No, sir. I'm not hurt. I'm fine."

"Right." Sheriff Moore nodded, but there was a distant look in his eye. Sam knew the questions were on the tip of his tongue, but there were several people at his elbow, waiting. "Go on home, then. We'll talk about this later, once I have this sorted out. You'll need to write a statement."

Postponed. Sam swallowed a sigh. He wanted to have it out now, but there were others injured, more important things to do. Sheriff Moore waited calmly, so different from John Winchester. Sam would have started an argument right there, had it been John standing there all arrogant and full of himself, but Sheriff Moore's calm demeanor invited nothing but cooperation. Sam nodded. "Sure. Tomorrow. I'll see you then."

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NOTE: How will Sheriff Moore deal with Sam? What will Jessica say when she finds out what happened? Keep reading and let me know what you think in the reviews!


	4. Dental Floss

NOTE: Thanks for all of your great reviews! I never intended for this story to get this long, but since you asked for more, here it is! I have been inspired by your reviews, so please, let me know what you think. I am trying to update once a week.

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 **Chapter 4: Dental Floss**

"Jess, you need to put dental floss on the grocery list. Do you have a sewing needle?"

Jessica was busy in the kitchen of their little apartment, cooking more food than they really needed. She couldn't seem to sit still since Sam had gotten home. He'd assured her ten times that he was fine, but she hadn't stopped shaking until he'd wrapped her up in a big hug to show her that he was real, and alive, and not hurt.

She was fixing a big dinner, because cooking was as good as therapy, sometimes. Mom had called to say that Dad was fine. He would be late, busy at the hospital helping to sort out all of the casualties. Two men had died today, several more were injured. Jess hadn't wanted to let go of Sam at all, when he finally made it home. But he'd insisted on cleaning up, he had blood all over his shirt. Jess knew he'd be hungry when he was done, so she cooked.

Sam reached past her to snag a bottle of something from the oil and alcohol cupboard above her head. She tiled her chin up for a kiss, and he happily obliged.

"Sure. It's over in my basket, under the TV." Jess frowned at the pile of fresh vegetables under her knife on the cutting board, but when she looked up to ask Sam why he wanted a sewing needle, he'd retreated back to the bathroom.

Dental floss, a sewing needle and-Jess checked the cabinet-whiskey. She frowned. That combination should mean something. If this was one of those action-adventure movies, it would mean someone was trying to stitch themselves up, instead of going to a hospital.

Jess turned to stare at the closed bathroom door. Sam had come home with blood on his shirt, but he'd claimed it all belonged to the other guy.

That Sam was close enough to anything bloody to get it on his shirt meant that Jessica was going to have words with her father. He'd promised that this job would be safe, paperwork and running errands, maybe helping occasionally to direct traffic. Nothing more.

"Sam?" Jessica knocked on the bathroom door. "Sam, are you ok?"

"I'm fine. I'll be done before dinner's ready."

There was a hiss of pain, and Jessica pushed the door open.

Sam sat on the toilet, his shirt rolled up to reveal a gash down his forearm. He had a needle stuck through his skin, like he was sewing it together with…dental floss?

"Baby, what are you doing?" Jess reached forward to catch Sam's hand in hers as he pulled the needle through his skin. "Stop! Sam!"

Sam glanced up at her, then dropped his eyes to stare at his toes. "It's nothing, Jess. Just a little scratch. I'll be done in a minute. You probably don't want to watch."

"Sam, why-" She cupped her hands around his face and lifted his chin to face her square in the eyes. "Why didn't you go to the hospital with the rest of them?"

Sam paused, a thoughtful look on his face. Clearly, it hadn't even occurred to him to go. Jessica had seen that look before. Every once in a while she would catch him doing something odd. Something that was just habit for him, but that didn't fit into normal life. He'd stopped every time, with that same look, the look that said he just had never thought about it before.

He tried to look down at his toes again and his shoulders curled up, the posture he used to make himself seem smaller than he really was. He used it to put other people at ease, make them feel comfortable, or when he was embarrassed and waiting for someone to notice how different he really was.

Jess paused for a moment before reacting. She knew he was waiting for something, a familiar script he'd heard over and over from well-meaning people startled by the way of life he'd grown up with.

Whatever that was. He would never come out and say it, but Jessica had her guesses, each one wilder than the next.

"Well, I don't care what your dad thought about hospitals, and I don't care if you think it's just a little scratch. It's my favorite floss-I looked everywhere for the bubble gum flavor. You're not going to waste all of it. You got hurt on duty, we don't even need to worry about the bill. The County will pay it. Get that out of your arm. I'm taking you to the hospital, if only so you can get proper painkillers."

"Huh." Sam stared at her for a moment in stunned appreciation. "Everyone was so busy with the serious injuries, I didn't even think about. I can manage this, Jess. It's fine."

"Maybe you can, but you don't have to. Let's go." Jess placed her hands under his shoulders and levered him to his feet.

"But, dinner! It smells really good."

Jess rolled her eyes. "You and food. If you get much bigger, you'll be too tall to kiss anymore!" Sam's eyes widened piteously, and she sighed. "Fine. I can have this in the crock pot in ten minutes. You, go get in the car!"

"Yes, ma'am." Sam pulled a towel out of a drawer and wrapped his arm tightly before vanishing out the front door.

Jess waited until he was gone, and then took a long, deep breath. _Don't freak out. Don't freak out_. She dumped veggies and meat into the crock pot and plugged it in.

 _How much do I really know about Sam Winchester? What was his life like before we met?_

 _Does it matter?_

Jess shook her head firmly. That was a thought for a different day. She grabbed her keys and turned out the lights, muttering, "One of these days I'm going to talk Dad into giving me a flashing light and a siren." She wished she had them now, but she steeled herself to remain calm as she drove her bleeding boyfriend to the ER.

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Sam sat back in his chair in the ER waiting room, the smell of bleach and iodine stinging his nose. His head was still reeling from the events of the day.

First the old feeling of going out on a hunt. It didn't matter that the hunt was for a man, and he was surrounded by FBI instead of family, the feeling was the same. Fear gnawing at his gut, facing the uncertainty that the worst could happen. Those eternal moments waiting in the lobby, keeping curious folk out, wondering if things would go sideways.

Then they did, and Sam had killed a man. That was nothing. He had killed demon worshippers before, and monsters that looked remarkably like men. He hadn't flinched, when it had come to it. The fear which had clawed at his belly all day vanished the moment he stepped up to face Strickler. He'd gotten blood on his hands twice, once to take a life and then to save one. But none of that had rattled Sam.

What rattled him were the stares, slack-jawed and wondering from the tough FBI agent down to the local deputies. Deputy Mann had given him wide berth, during the cleanup. Sherriff Moore had not said a word, just looked at him thoughtfully while Sam held onto the SWAT officer's artery until the paramedics came to take over. Sherriff Moore had asked Sam if he was ok, and sent him home.

Sam hadn't even notice the cut on his arm until he was halfway to the small apartment he shared with Jessica. It had been so good to see her waiting for him. So good to feel her warmth pressed against him. He didn't want to worry her by letting her see the cut on his arm. It wasn't worth the bother. He was far more worried about facing her father, and the questions that would follow, tomorrow a the office.

Then she had caught him in the bathroom and insisted on the hospital. Sam must have been more shaken than he realized, to agree to go. She had made a good point, the cut was starting to sting and real painkillers would be nice. Besides, professional stitches were more comfortable than floss in the long run.

Now, in the ER, he realized his mistake. Half the Sheriff's department was still here, either being treated or waiting by a friend's bedside. Most had not been as lucky as Sam. But all had heard about his fight, his kill. The story was spreading fast and no one could walk by without staring, and whispering.

Sam hunched his shoulders and stared at his toes. He'd figured out how to fit in at Stanford, finally. He'd just started to figure out how to fit in here, and now this had happened.

Jessica paced in front of him, hands on her hips, fuming. "I should have just let you take care of it yourself. We've been here for an hour already!"

Sam grinned. Jessica had never given him sideways looks, never acted as if he was odd or out of place no matter what happened. Even when she'd caught him in the bathroom, stitching his arm closed with dental floss, she had made him feel comfortable. Now, she prowled protectively, in a way that made Sam almost homesick for his big brother.

"Winchester!"

"Yes! Over here!" Jessica waved her hand, and everyone in the room stared, again.

The nurse trotted over and escorted Sam to a small space off to one side of the ER separated by a privacy curtain. She set out iodine, stitches, needle and bandage, and then said, "The doctor will be with you shortly."

Sam huffed in annoyance. More waiting.

"Jessica!" Sheriff Moore had seen them vanish behind the curtain. He ducked his head in and pulled Jessica aside. "Honey, we need to talk."

"Daddy! Sam's hurt."

"I see that." Sheriff Moore gave Sam a wary glance and pulled his daughter out of sight around the curtain.

Sam could ear them talking in low voices, but he could not catch what they were saying. Minutes ticked by and Jessica's voice became more shrill as Sheriff Moore's became more grim. Sam gritted his teeth and slid to the edge of his seat, ready to storm out there and shout at them all for judging him, when he had saved a life today-

The curtain parted. The doctor was a tiny woman of Asian descent, she barely came up to Sam's shoulder while he was seated. She beamed at him. "Mr. Winchester! A hero in my ER, this is an honor."

Sam sat back in his seat and let her take his arm to examine the cut. "Hero?"

"You saved a man today, Allen Peabody. He's got three children and a wife on their way here to see him. I was on the team that treated him and I can say for certain, Sam, that your first aid saved his life. Thank you."

Sam blinked. "Uh-oh. Yeah. You're welcome-I mean-" Sam stumbled over his words, completely unsure what to say. He'd never been thanks for saving anyone before, and he could just hear his father's voice in the back of his head telling him how he could improve his emergency aid technique.

A sharp burst of pain shot through his arm. "Ow!"

"Oh, that is deep. We'll get some stitches in and you can head home." The doctor smiled kindly and reached for the iodine.

From the other side of the curtain, the voices grew louder. Jessica was trying to get back into Sam's exam-corner. "No, Dad. I don't know where he learned how to kill people, and I don't care! He can't help how he grew up."

"Jessica, I just want to know more about him-"

"I know everything I need to know about him!" Jessica was talking loudly now, loud enough Sam though the entire hospital ought to be able to hear.

"Sam and I are living together, Dad. You know that. I've seen every inch of him-"

"Jessica! We're in public!" Sheriff Moore's voice was choked. There was dead silence across the ER.

The doctor glanced sideways at Sam, saw his cheeks flush, and went back to her work.

Jessica continued, not lowering her tone no matter how much Sam prayed she would. "And I've seen every scar. He's got a lot of them, and I've known that for months. I don't know where they came from, but I'm glad that whatever happened, he was able to fight back."

"You don't know anything about his life before college!"

"I know that he is good and kind and he makes me happy! I know that he left his family to go to school and he has done everything he can to put that behind him. Whatever he was before, wherever he grew up, he doesn't want that life anymore. We're building a new life, together. Don't run a background check or look into anything, Dad. Sam is mine, I know who he is now, and that's all I care about!"

The floor squeaked as Jessica turned on her heel. The curtain flew back and she stormed into the exam room to sit by Sam, taking his hand in hers. "Hi. I hope you didn't-ew!" She finally noticed the doctor, pulling a needle and thread through Sam's skin, and buried her face in his shoulder. "Tell me when it's over!"

Sam laughed, and held her close until the doctor left. Jessica didn't let go of his hand as they walked out of the hospital. Sam felt the heat of the stares as he walked past the ER staff, and the crowd waiting outside. He'd dealt with stares all his life. He was used to being the odd one, the one who didn't fit. No matter how many times it happened, he could never get used to the feeling of strangers' eyes raking over him, making up rumors in their minds, judging him from a distance. But today they had no power to make his feel small or out of place. Today Jessica stuck to him like a shield.

Then, something entirely new happened. Hands raised, not to shout or jeer or shoo him away, but to clap. All around, as Sam walked past, people stood up and put their hands together. Their stares turned to smiles, and they used their hands to shout their thanks.

 _You saved a man today_. The doctor's words rang in Sam's ears.

Maybe, just maybe, everything would be ok after all.

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Back in Palo Alto, the city was quiet. With summer break in full swing, the town was missing a good portion of its population. The natives breathed a sigh of relief and enjoyed the calm before the return of students in another month. Of course, some students had remained. Some had jobs, some had summer classes, and some had other business to attend to.

Sam's former roommate, Brady answered to a new list of priorities these days. No longer worried about grades or even graduating, he had a much bigger plan in mind, and much more dangerous boss to answer to. Yet he didn't show any signs of worry. He lounged on the couch, feet kicked over the armrest, chatting with a dear old friend as if he hadn't a care in the world.

"Wow, Jessica, I had no idea Sam could do something like that. Yeah, he's quite a guy. I'm glad he's ok. Look, I've got to let you go. I have another call to make." Brady's eyes flashed black as he hung up the phone. The demon chuckled, as if Christmas had come early.

"Well, well. We thought little Sammy was going soft. We'll soon see."

Brady pocketed the phone, and picked up a knife and a silver bowl. He left his nice apartment, tucked safely in a corner of a neighborhood filled with frat houses and old buildings remodeled to house student apartments that slowly gave way to tidy professor's homes, and walked through the night to the other side of town. Not that he cared who's blood fueled the spell, but he had a reputation to maintain.

He found a bridge, the underbelly littered with sleeping figures, and slit the first throat he found. Blood spurted as the woman who donated it gurgled and then was silent.

Brady caught the red fluid in his silver bowl. It was deliciously warm and sticky; he couldn't help but lick his fingers after he finished the incantation.

The blood bubbled. "Master, of course I wouldn't disturb you without a reason! There is an opportunity with Sam Winchester." The blood bubbled and Brady listened intently. "Yes, sir, I know he's going soft. I think I know how to shake things up. Have we got anyone in journalism?"

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Like it? Hate it? Please review and let me know! I love hearing from you.

Everything seems to be going well, but Sam has a few more obstacles in front of him, and not all of them are demon-made. Keep reading.


	5. Price of Secrets

NOTE: Thanks for all of your reviews! I really love hearing from my readers. I hope that you enjoy this chapter and keep reading. Every comment inspires me to write more, so let me know what you think!

 **The Price of Secrets**

Sam stared at the ceiling, the textured surface lit by the streetlight outside the window, which threw eerie shadows across the room. He blinked, and waited for his mind to tell him why he was awake in the middle of the night. His heart hammered in his chest, sweat beaded his forehead as if he had just finished running full-tilt down an alley away from…whatever Dad was hunting this week.

But here he was in bed, and there were no cold spots, no rattling sounds, nothing that should have alerted him to be ready for danger. He sighed and went to roll over, and his arm instantly complained. Achy, throbbing pain pulsed from elbow to fingertips, and Sam remembered the cut. Strickler had been aiming for his throat, but Sam had blocked with a less-vital body part.

 _My pain meds must have worn off._ Sam checked the clock, glowing green in the darkness. 3:47 AM.

As his mind woke, the rest of his body joined in to complain. His shoulders ached, his legs ached, his knuckles ached. He hadn't been in a serious fight, hadn't pushed himself that hard, in over three years. His muscles complained about the lack of warning, lack of warm-up, lack of practice.

 _Scratch. Scratch. Scratch_. Something rattled against the window. Adrenaline shot through Sam, then he remembered the low-hanging branch that liked to knock against the house in even the lightest breeze.

Shadows shifted across the room and Sam reached for the knife he used to keep under his pillow, only to realize it wasn't there, hadn't been there for years. The hum of a car engine roared, then faded into the distance and the shadows were still again.

Jessica shifted in the bed, and Sam rolled carefully out from under the covers so that he would not wake her. He didn't know what he would say if she opened her eyes and asked what was wrong. Despite the way she had defended him to her father, there had been an awkward silence between them on the way home. She was trying to process this new information about him, and he was desperately hoping that this bit of his old life crashing through the new wouldn't smash it all to bits.

Images of a life that had vanished flashed through his mind, no matter how much he tried to keep them away. He needed to talk, to vent, to let off the steam.

If he were at home-whichever motel room the family happened to be crashing in for the night, anyway-Dean would be awake by now. He'd have cracked open two beers, or else found a 24-hour delivery place and had something warm and greasy on the way.

Dean always knew how to make things better.

Dad would be cleaning gear, or patrolling the room. He only slept half as much as his boys, using every waking hour to prepare, and protect. He would have a beer with them, or else snap at them for wasting time on non-essential things, depending on his mood. Right now, either would be better than the silence that engulfed the tiny apartment.

In the living room now, Sam flipped open his phone and scrolled through the contacts list to D.

Dad.

Dean.

The words stared at him from the screen for a few seconds, then faded as the backlight timed out.

 _I want my family._

Sam had expected the nightmare, expected the aching pain, expected to be a bit shaky the next day. But he hadn't expected this longing for something he'd convinced himself he didn't need.

Dad. Dean.

His finger pressed the button. The phone on the other end of the line rang, rang, rang again. A gruff voice answered, sleepy but fully alert. Always on guard, always ready, always looking for something to be wrong.

"Sam! What's wrong?"

Sam froze, Dad's voice ringing in his ears. He had decided not to do this. He had made the choice. Why had he pressed the call button?

He took a breath.

"Sam! Talk to me son, are you ok?"

Sam let out the breath, and snapped the phone shut. He quickly hit the 'mute' button as it started to ring again. And again. Sam shoved the phone under a pillow until it stopped vibrating, then looked at the call log. John had called five times before he gave up, and left five voice mails. Sam deleted them without listening. He could guess what they said.

 _Sam, are you hurt? Is there a hunt near you?_

 _Sam, why did you call so late? This had better be an emergency._

 _Sam, answer me or I'm calling your local 9-1-1!_

 _Answer me, Sam, that's an order!_

 _Be more careful with your phone! If it's not an emergency, don't call!_

"Sam?"

Jess stood in the doorway, a blanket wrapped around her shoulders. "Sam, are you ok?"

Sam turned his phone off. "Yeah, fine. I just-" He paused. There was so much he wanted to say. It all waited on the edge of the silence, ready to spill forth. He knew if he started, he would tell her everything.

 _We do what we do and we shut up about it._

Sam swallowed the words. "I think I'm due for another painkiller."

Jess glanced at the clock. "Of course! I'll go get it."

She fetched the pills and water (not beer, like Dean would have), waited while Sam took them, and shuffled him back to bed. She rubbed his back and he buried his face in her hair.

"Remember, Dad said you're on suspension pending an inquiry, so you don't have to go to work in the morning. Sleep as late as you need."

Inquiry. Right. This wasn't over yet.

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"Sam! Are you hurt? Is there a hunt near you?"

"Sam? Is there an emergency? Why did you call?"

"Sammy! Do I need call EMS?"

"Damn it Sam, why aren't you answering your phone? You called me!"

"Sammy, hold tight. Help is coming."

John glared at his phone. Cell phones had promised to be the invention of a bright future, connecting people at any time, any place. So that a loved one could call with a flat tire or when lost, or hurt. No one would be without help, or a way to communicate. Today, the phone had failed its promise. John shoved it into the glove box as punishment and started the engine.

He'd been sleeping in his truck, staking out what might be a vetala hunting ground, waiting for evidence to tell him he was killing monsters, and not innocent bystanders.

Well, the vetala would have to wait. His son was in trouble. There was no other reason Sam would call.

John was on the east coast, about as far away from Sam as he could be. He snatched the phone out of the glove box and started dialing. Surely, someone would be closer. Someone could find out what had happened.

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Sam stumbled out of the bedroom at half past nine and blinked blearily in the morning light, his nose twitching. Jess grinned with satisfaction, but kept her eyes on the stovetop in front of her. Bacon sizzled and pancakes bubbled, Sam's favorite breakfast.

Jessica had the phone pinned between her shoulder and ear, and Sam leaned his elbows on the counter, yawning, while she finished her conversation.

"Uh-huh. I'll warn him. Thank you, Dad."

"You're quite sure about this, sweetheart?" Dad's voice was colored with concern, like the time she had insisted on going off the high dive for the first time, or the time she had persuaded him to take the training wheels off her bike before he thought she was ready. But she'd never let his worry change her decisions, and she wouldn't now. He didn't know anything about Sam, really, except that he could fight really well. The rest was just worry, assumptions, gossip. It didn't mean anything.

"Yes, yes I'm sure. Love you. Bye."

Jessica loaded up plates and spun to place them under Sam's nose. He was looking more alert now, nursing a cup of coffee. Jessica smiled. "You're up! Hungry?"

It was a rhetorical question, really. Sam was always hungry. He was still growing. Not as fast as a teenager, but still filling out the last lanky portions of his lean frame. In a few more months, he would need a new shirt size.

Sam grinned. "Starved." He attacked the pancakes with fork and knife, and Jess was glad she'd made reserves. He finished his plate before she was halfway through hers, and she refilled his lonely puddle of syrup before he could ask for more.

Sam retreated to the couch, stretching out comfortably and patting his belly. Jess left the dishes dirty on the counter and made her way over to join him.

"Full?" He grinned, and nodded. "Comfy?" He nodded again, and wiggled his but deeper into the cushions. "Good." Jessica settled on his lap. He blinked in surprise, but relaxed as she wrapped her arms around his neck and leaned in as if to kiss him. His lips parted in expectation. She ran her hands through his hair.

"Good, then it's time to talk."

She could feel him tense up under her, but he couldn't run away, not with her sitting squarely in his lap. His eyes widened, like a puppy that's just been swatted after finding its way into the treat drawer.

"Talk?" He asked, eyes begging, _Please, no!_

"Yes. Talk. About you, about yesterday."

Sam ducked his head, which meant that he was staring squarely at her chest. His head tilted a little to the side, so he was looking out the window instead. "I thought you didn't care, I thought you were okay with things. You told your dad—"

"Sam." Jessica put a hand under his chin and pulled his face around to face her. "I'm still here, I still love you, and that isn't going to change. I want—"

She had so many questions. Her dearest wish in this moment was to start rattling them all off, to have a confrontation like people did on TV soap operas, or romance novels. She wanted to know everything about him, she wanted the truth because she knew he was holding onto something important, something big, about himself.

But she had made her decision, and that hadn't changed. "I want to make sure you're ok. I know you don't like to talk about your family or your past."

Sam turned away again.

"And I'm not demanding any answers. I am ok with not knowing. But I'm not sure you are."

Sam's head snapped back to look her straight in the eye, and she smiled. "I think there's something you need to talk about, Sam. Dad said—" She took a deep breath. This was the part that scared her, the part she really needed to know. "Dad said that the way you took down Strickler, it meant you had done it before. You've killed people before."

Sam wrapped his arms around her waist, tense and shaking, and closed his eyes. "He said that?" His voice was soft and strained, full of fear.

"Baby, I'm not going anywhere." Jessica ran her fingers through his hair, and he relaxed slightly. "But we do need to talk about this. I'm not asking you to tell me everything. But I don't want this between us, you not talking and hoping I don't notice, me watching you and worrying. This really bothered you, Sam. I can see that."

Sam's face ran through a series of expressions, from thoughtful to terrified, as he sorted through whatever dark secrets were lurking in his past. Jessica sat back, giving him space to think.

"I had a pretty rough life, growing up. I've-" He halted. "I've seen people die before. My dad, he was a tunnel rat in Vietnam, and learned to fight there. Then, after my mom—Dad thinks my mom was murdered, and after that he insisted that my brother and I learn how to fight. We've always lived around violent people…" He trailed off.

"And you had to defend yourself." Jessica traced her finger over his chest. Even with his shirt on, she knew where the scar was, a jagged white line that jutted out of his shoulder like a lightning bolt. "Sam, I'm glad you got through it. I'm glad you made it here to me."

He opened his eyes and stared at her, wondering. "How did I get lucky enough to find you?"

Normally, she would have shrugged and made a crack about low standards, but not today. Today she said, "Angels. You know, a chubby little cupid running around in a diaper with a tiny bow and arrow. He shot us both, and I don't have a choice anymore."

Sam laughed, releasing some of the tension.

"You can talk to me Sam, about anything. Remember that."

Sam nodded. He paused, something on the tip of his tongue. Jessica held her breath, hopeful. But then, his expression changed and he leaned back, running a hand up her back.

"So, what do you want to do with the day?"

Jessica stifled a disappointed sigh, and settled against his shoulder. "Well, I think staying in would be a good idea. Apparently, there are reporters flooding Dad's office, and they'll probably be looking for you. He suggested we lie low. You get three days off, then you have to report for the inquiry hearing."

"Reporters?" Now Sam looked like a deer trapped in headlights.

Jessica laughed. "They'll be gone to chase another story in a few days. Don't worry about it. They probably just want to get a closer look at the FBI. We never have anything this big happen in this small town."

The morning sun shone around them, highlighting the moment in a warm halo. Jessica leaned her ear against Sam's chest and listened to him breath. No, she didn't need to know anything more about him. This was enough. But a small corner of her mind wondered when something from his past would come back to haunt them. It was a dark thought, not fit for this bright morning, but it lingered notheless.

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It was midday when John's phone rang, the sun shining bright overhead and not a cloud in the sky. It felt strange, sometimes, to speak about the job on such a nice day. John usually worked at night. There was something about the darkness that helped mute the harsh reality of the world he lived in, hunted in, killed in. The light highlighted every threadbare, faded, cracked, and peeling corner of his dingy motel room. There was no hiding the ugly, unhappy parts of this life, when the light shone in like that. He snapped the curtains closed, shutting out the sun, and looked at the caller ID.

"Caleb. Have you got something new for me?" Over the years, John had cultivated relationships with men on the fringes of society, men who didn't care about social niceties and wouldn't find John's direct, impatient tone offensive.

In this case, the man on the other end of the line was just as worried as John.

"I found something, alright. According to the local papers, Sam killed a man." Caleb's voice was grim.

John felt as if he had been thrown into a wall. "What?"

"It was part of an FBI manhunt. The guy is a serial killer, a hit man for organized crime out of Chicago. Sam go to close to a manhunt that went wrong. The target, a man named Eugene Strickler, took down half the FBI team. Sam stopped him."

John breathed again. "Well, is he alright?"

"Just fine. There will be an inquiry, of course, but he won't be in trouble. They're calling him a hero."

There was a but hanging at the end of those words. John waited.

"That man Sam killed has a brother."

"Damn." John knew all too well the power of a family bond. Watching Dean and Sam grow up together over the years, he wondered at all that he had missed as an only child. Their loyalty to each other, the way they cared for each other, never ceased to amaze John, who had never had a sibling. But not all brothers were like that. "Does he know? Does he care?"

"Word is he retired, went straight twenty years ago."

"Then why do you sound worried?"

"I checked into it, you know how I feel about your boys. Just wanted to make sure. This guy, he got out of the family business, but he was real close to his brother. Donated a kidney to him ten years ago. Grew up protecting him. He might be retired, but—you know you never really leave it behind. Especially when family's involved. Word's gonna travel fast, John. It's all over the local papers."

"Thanks, Caleb. I'll take it from here."

"I'm in the area, I'm gonna check in on him."

"He won't thank you for that." John remembered the look on Sam's face when they'd locked eyes across the booking desk.

"Still. I'm here, I'm checking in. You know how I feel about your boys."

John didn't think anyone could feel the way he felt about his boys. Could feel the fierce fire of pride in their accomplishments, feel the cold fear when one was in danger. The fear that had chased John over the years, ever since he'd learned that demons had an interest in Sam. It lingered in the back of his thoughts always. If Caleb wanted to keep an eye on Sam, John wouldn't stop him.

John let the phone close and leaned back on the rickety bed. _Sam, why don't you let us protect you?_ Always, his youngest had resisted every order John gave, every rule, every protection the desperate father could muster. Sam never cared how his actions affected others, or the consequences they might bring on his head. He did whatever came to mind with no filter, and now his hot head had gotten him into trouble again.

 _No. Sam did right thing._ He'd used the skills John taught him to stop a monster (human or not the man was a killer) and save a life.

If Sam had been with the family, they would have moved on by now. If Sam had been 'home', he wouldn't be a sitting target for the press, the police, and whoever might care about the deceased. But Sam wanted a real life, and he'd gotten it. Which meant that now, he would stay. Now, when the darkness came, he wouldn't move on, wouldn't be watching his back, wouldn't be armed to defend himself.

John had seen Sam take a stand over and over again on a matter he believed in, only to get tripped up by the details of reality. There was a chance that nothing would come of it. There was a chance that everything would be fine. But John didn't believe it, not for a second. He had given up on hope long ago. For now, he had a hunt to finish. He couldn't do any good to Sam driving across country, not with Caleb so close. There were people to save. John closed his eyes to get some sleep before night fell. He had to catch this vetala tonight.

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NOTE: What do you think? Please let me know in the reviews!

I'll try to post the next chapter next week. Sam will have to face an official inquiry, and Henricksen is very, very curious about his past...


	6. Inquiry

**Note: Thanks for all of your wonderful reviews! I have kept on with this story because so many people are interested. Please keep telling me what you like about this story, it helps me learn to be a better writer. Also always appreciate any constructive comments, if something doesn't work for the story, or doesn't make sense, let me know!**

 **Inquiry**

Dean stared at the newspaper. He didn't wonder at the headline. Intern Kills Mob Hit-Man. If the other guy was just a man and not a monster, it didn't matter how tough he was, Sam could take him. He didn't even really worry about the small sentence where the article talked about Sam being treated at the local hospital. He had left the same day, so nothing to worry about.

No, this first thought in Dean's head when he saw that picture was, _how tall is Sam now?_ He had still been growing when he left for Stanford, threatening to pass his big brother. And then, _what did he do with his hair? Don't tell me he's going to grow it out to his waist now that Dad can't make him cut it!_

Dean stared at the picture. The silence around him grew, the soft sounds of the night felt smaller and farther away. He'd always been familiar with the night, the darkness, the sounds that only occurred once most people were tucked away in the beds. He'd never paid much attention to them, before. He'd had Sam to take care of, always asking questions, or Dad to follow, always giving orders. There hadn't been much time to listen to the silence, because the night had been full.

But lately he'd become intimately familiar with the sounds of darkness. With Sam gone, and Dad following shortly after, Dean had spent three years more alone than ever before.

He thought he'd gotten used to it, but the space of the empty passenger seat next to him seemed to grow as soon as he saw that picture. Sammy, flushed with embarrassment and trying to duck away from the cameras, a girl tucked up under his arm.

Dean flipped the paper over and tried to ignore the sudden ache in his gut.

 _I want my family back!_

He picked up the phone and pressed the first number on his speed dial. At least he could still count on that. Whenever he called, Dad always answered.

"Dean. Did you get that boogey-man?"

"Yeah, Dad. Beheaded and burned. You need to look at the newspaper form Lake County-"

"I saw it. Caleb told me. Dean, I'm in Georgia, and I've got to finish this hunt. I want you to go to Lake County and keep an eye on him."

Dean straightened in his seat. "Yes sir. What's wrong?"

"Caleb says the guy Sam killed has a brother. And Sam's picture is all over the papers." John's voice was laced with frustration. As if he wanted to go back to Lake County, knock Sam out, toss him in the trunk, and drive him to safety. "Caleb is checking it out, but I want eyes on Sam, at least for the next few weeks."

"Yes, sir!" Dean liked it when he got orders that matched what he already wanted to do. Dad had gone to check on Sam countless times, but he always sent Dean in the other direction. Dean hadn't been near California for at least four years, but he remembered every wonderful moment of their last trip; sun, burgers, girls in bikinis…and Sam, trying and failing to surf. Sam.

 _I'll see you soon, little brother._

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Sam paused outside the Lake Co Sheriff's Dept., peering through the glass doors. Over the past month, this place had begun to feel like home. He'd dreamed of building a life here, of living around these people for the next fifty years or however long fate gave him. He'd let himself think of staying. Maybe that was the problem. He didn't lose things until he grew firmly attached to them. It was just the universe's way of really sticking to the Winchesters.

Sometimes Sam wished he could be like Dean and Dad, who never seemed to care about the places they stopped, leaving people behind, or being the 'freak.' Not that he wanted to live that life, but if he didn't care, it would be easier. If he didn't care, he wouldn't have so much to lose.

Despite the ovation he'd received at the hospital, Sam was still nervous about today. Today, he would have to face Sheriff Moore and make a statement about what he had done, and why. Today, the Inquiry would decide if his actions were justified, if he got to keep his job, or not.

Today he would find out of he got to go back to work. And when he got there, how would his co-workers react? Would they treat him differently? Would they know he was a freak?

The receptionist, Miss Brown, spotted him through the doors and waved him in with a friendly smile. Sam couldn't put it off any longer.

The familiar scent surrounded him, coffee and gunpowder. Familiar faces greeted him with smiles, congratulations, or words of encouragement as he made his way toward Sheriff Moore's office. People noticed him more quickly than they ever had before, and gave him more personal space, but other than that, nothing had changed.

"Can't wait till you get back, Rita's coffee is terrible." A deputy made a face over his mug, then gave Sam a thumbs-up.

"I've got a stack of paperwork waiting for you, don't think that injury gets you out of it!" The State's Attorney liaison to the Sheriff's Dept clapped Sam on the shoulder as she marched toward the evidence room, a stack of files in hand.

"Can you teach me that stuff?" This, whispered, from a forensic specialist as Sam passed by the door to his lab.

"Sam!" Sheriff Moore stood at the door to a conference room and beckoned Sam toward him. "We'll take your statement in here. The FBI wanted to be present, as it is their case. Your statement will be used for their file and for ours. Is that ok?"

Sam nodded. "Yeah. Sure."

The room was full of people. There was Agent Henricksen from the FBI, with his scowl plastered on. Another agent hovered at his elbow, a typist sat poised to take notes, and the tech guy was setting up the equipment. There was a representative from the State's Attorney office, and Sheriff Moore. Sam sat in the only empty chair left, folded his hands in his lap, and waited.

A microphone was placed in front of him, and after an official reading of the reasons for the inquiry and possible consequences, Sheriff Moore directed him to make his statement.

"We need to know what happened, Sam, from your point of view. Why did you engage Eugene Strickler in a fight, and why did you use lethal force?"

In other words, why did you jump in front of an armed man and stick his own knife in his chest?

"I was in the lobby, waiting with Officer Peabody. We heard noises from upstairs, we knew that Strickler was killing men and that he might get away. I heard Agent Henricksen give the order to kill him if necessary."

Sam glanced at Henricksen. His piercing glare was fixed on Sam, as if to pin him to his seat. Sam shifted uncomfortably. He couldn't shake the feeling that he'd been in this exact position before. There was something familiar about the agent that he just couldn't place. It made him wary.

"Then Strickler came running into the lobby, and Peabody tried to stop him. He warned Strickler that he would shoot, but Strickler kept running. Peabody took the shot, but Strickler ducked under the line of fire, plowed into Peabody, and shoved a knife in his side, just above the vest. Peabody collapsed."

Sam closed his eyes, remembering the moment. "Strickler was going to get away, so I stepped in front of him. I didn't want him to kill more people. We fought, he tried to kill me at least three times. I blocked him, took the knife, and…finished it."

"Did you hear the rest of the FBI team arrive? Did you know that if you dropped to the ground, they were in a position to overwhelm and arrest Strickler?"

Sam knew it was a question that had to be asked, but it made his blood boil anyway. When every decision had to be made in a fraction of a second there wasn't time to do things like wonder where the rest of the FBI was. He could hear Dad's voice echoing in his head. _Never second-guess your moves after a fight. If you start, you'll lose focus the next time, thinking of what to do better. When you're in it, you let your reflexes do the work. That's why we practice._

"Sam, please answer the question," Sheriff Moore prodded gently.

"No, I didn't notice them. I was a little focused on not getting killed."

There were a few smiles and nods around the room.

"Where did you learn that move?" Henricksen was not smiling. His eyes bored into Sam, as if he wanted to dissect him.

Sam shrugged. "I'm not sure. My dad had us take fighting lessons a lot of different places."

"You don't remember where you learned a move that has no use other than to kill a man?" Henricksen shook his head, disbelieving. "That is not something they teach at the karate dojo down the block."

Henricksen was a coil of energy, like a tiger waiting to spring. Some part of Sam's brain knew that he needed to be careful here, that Henricksen would push him into a minefield and do a victory dance when Sam inevitably blew up. But that part of Sam's brain had never been very loud, or very strong. Sam could feel his blood boil, a feeling he hadn't had since that last fight with Dad.

Everything about this FBI agent reminded Sam of his father. He snapped orders, just like Dad. He didn't care about collateral damage, just like Dad. Somehow, he knew how to push every one of Sam's button's, just like Dad.

Sam wanted nothing more than to punch the Agent in the face. The feeling must have shown, because everyone else in the room shifted and looked away. Except Sheriff Moore. His eyes narrowed, perturbed.

Sam swallowed his frustration. _You can handle this. Just stay calm_. He had explained himself to Jessica well enough, three days ago. She had accepted his story. It wasn't complete, but it was the truth.

"My dad was a tunnel rat in Vietnam. He learned how to fight there. He taught us everything he knows."

"Us?" Sheriff Moore cocked his head, curious.

"Me and my brother."

Sheriff Moore nodded, satisfied. Where Henricksen just poured gasoline on the flame, Sheriff Moore's was like a bucket of cold water, soothing his hot temper. The differences between Jessica's dad and Sam's own father couldn't have been greater.

"Your daddy taught you? Mr. Winchester, you just said that you don't remember where you learned that move!" Just as he had predicted, Sam had landed on the mine, and Henricksen was practically dancing in his seat. "Are you lying to this inquiry board? Where did you get your training?"

"I didn't lie!" The entire room recoiled from Sam, the trained fighters braced and ready for action. Sam realized he had jumped to his feet. He closed his eyes for a moment and lowered his tone.

"I didn't lie. My dad taught me a lot of stuff, but we grew up in some rough places, around rough people. Dad wanted us to be ready to handle anything, so he asked anyone he could find to teach us. I've been training to fight since I was six."

"That's a long time, Sam." Henricksen leaned back in his chair and folded his hands over his belly, all of the tension gone. He grinned, like a tiger closing in on its trapped prey. "Training like that, I'd think you would know how to keep track of your surroundings. You would notice the men at your back, ready to take down the target. If you sparred that much, you would know how to end a fight without a kill."

The room was silent, all eyes on Sam.

"My dad was paranoid. He taught us to fight to survive, not to spar. He taught us to finish a move, never hold back." Sam could feel the words rush out of him. He knew they were dangerous, knew he should stop, think about what he was saying. But the words just kept spilling out. "I'm done with that life. I've been out for three years. I haven't practiced or thought about it or fought with anyone for years."

Henricksen nodded sympathetically. "You were rusty."

Sam glared at him, no longer caring who else was in the room, or what they thought of him. "Yeah. I guess. It was reflex. I didn't want to kill anyone."

"Huh." Henricksen considered Sam for a moment. "Now, that I do believe. You were in the wrong place at the wrong time."

Sam nodded, feeling the heat dissipate in a swell of relief. "Yeah. Wrong place, wrong time. You're the one who put me there to begin with." As soon as the words were out of his mouth, Sam knew he had done it again.

All eyes were on Henricksen, waiting.

Henricksen laughed. "You're right, you're right. I did station you there. But tell me this, Sam. You said you got 'out'. What did you get out of?" Henricksen's smile vanished, his sharp gaze back with more force than before. The trap was sprung.

Sam twitched. There was no good answer.

"Agent, Sam's past is not on trial here, only his actions in the hotel." Sheriff Moore spoke gently, but firmly.

"His actions in the hotel are weighed by his level of experience and training, Sheriff." Henricksen glared at Sheriff Moore, then turned to Sam. "Sam was trained to kill, he said it himself. I want to know by whom, and why."

Sheriff Moore rose to his feet, fire in his eyes. "Agent, you made no secret of the fact that you preferred Strickler not to walk out of this confrontation alive. Sam provided that result. Why are you attacking him now?"

"Because I solve murders, Sheriff. Because I look for odd patterns. Because I see where the facts don't match up, and I try to fill in the gaps. There is something about this boy that you don't know. I intend to find out what it is. No one can have reflexes like that unless they've trained for years." Henricksen leaned forward on his knuckles, bearing down on Sam, every muscle tense and threatening.

Sam knew the tactic. He'd seen his father use it many times. It had stopped working on him ages ago. At least, it didn't get information. It only fueled the fire inside, the one that he thought he'd left behind with the hunting life.

Henricksen was almost a clone of Dad. All of his reactions, his investigation style; Sam knew them intimately. He knew the most annoying response, knew how to dig under that skin and make the other man completely lose his shit.

Sam rolled his eyes, communicating utter disdain for Henricksen's abilities and absolute disrespect for the institution he represented with one tiny twitch. "You're just mad I did what your men couldn't. You're mad that I'm better than you."

The agent hovering at Henricksen's elbow paled. His eyes widened as he looked heavenward. Praying for divine intervention?

Now Sam was the one sitting back relaxed and smug as Henricksen jumped at the bait. Sam didn't want divine intervention. He was ready for anything Henricksen had to throw at him. He hadn't channeled this much raw anger in long, long time. It made him feel good, powerful.

"You-!" Henricksen shook his head at the room at large, all of them sensibly cowering in their seats. He turned back to Sam, eyes bright. "Is that what you want? You want to see who's better in a fight?"

 _Yes!_ Sam's hands balled into fists and he clenched his jaw. _Bring it on_.

Henricksen started to peel off his jacket, but Sheriff Moore put a hand out to stop him.

"Agent, that's enough! This inquiry is over. We have all of the evidence we need from the motel lobby camera. Sam's statement confirms that he had no premeditated intention that day. He reacted, and as an intern without training in government procedures, we can only commend him for stopping a killer before he reached another innocent victim."

The agent behind Henricksen coughed suggestively, and shook his head.

Henricksen shrugged his shoulders back into his coat. He glared at Sheriff Moore, then at Sam, but allowed himself to be shown out of the room. The rest of the inquiry panel followed him, until only Sheriff Moore and Sam were left. The Sheriff fixed Sam with a cool, penetrating look. He wasn't like Henricksen, all fire and aggressive suspicion, or Dad, accusing and disappointed. Even so, that look meant trouble, and Sam knew it.

With Henricksen gone, Sam's anger vanished. Suddenly, he was just a gawky intern facing his girlfriend's dad.

Sam glanced at the table, and the microphone left behind by the tech guy. Everything had been recorded, every shameful, damming moment of it. The memory would never fade with the help of time. Anyone could replay the entire drama.

 _Don't let them wind you up, Sam_. Dean had seen Sam walk himself through minefields before. But today, there was no big brother nearby to pick up the pieces. All Sam could do was hope he hadn't lost everything.

000

Sheriff Moore considered the young man in front of him. Sam stood with his hands in his pockets, eyes cast down to the floor. His face was flushed and his entire posture screamed _Please don't kick me!_

Not for the first time, Sheriff Moore wondered what kind of hell Sam had faced as a child. He had recognized the look when they met; wary, watchful, careful. Sam was used to assessing the world around him for possible danger, and held himself ready to react at all times.

Until this day, Sheriff Moore thought that mean running, cowering, hiding. Those big, puppy-dog eyes were a natural defense-mechanism and he had seen Sam use them as such on more than one occasion. He had thought his daughter's boyfriend to be a sweet, mild-mannered young man who had learned to evade trouble by convincing everyone around him of his complete harmlessness.

Then, he had seen Sam kill a man, and he knew Sam was anything but harmless. He had been trained to kill.

But it was the display today that really worried Sheriff Moore. Today he had seen Sam's temper flip from _please don't hurt me_ to _I will kill you now_ within seconds. There was a deep anger there, just below the surface, masked by the big eyes and hunched shoulders. Anger like that could be dangerous.

Here, in a safe place, surrounded by people who were generally respectful, caring human beings, it wasn't a problem. But life made no guarantees of happy surroundings, or good people. Life had a way of sending you curve balls that brought out the worst, or the best.

Sam's worst could get him into a heap of trouble.

 _What will that mean for my daughter?_

"Well, Sam. It's over. I'll finish up the paperwork, and you can go back to your desk."

Sam's face rose to stare at the Sheriff, blinking in disbelief. "Sir?"

"I'm not happy that you nearly got into fist fight with an FBI agent, but that is not part of the inquiry. There wasn't much question to begin with, but the inquiry is required anytime someone employed by this office kills or injures another human being. I am satisfied that you acted appropriately at the motel." _Though not today_. "You can go back to work."

Sam's face brightened. "Yes, sir. Thank you, sir."

Always he addressed Sheriff Moore as if talking to a drill sergeant, and he wondered again just what Sam's father was like.

Sam paused in the doorway. "Sir, all of those questions Henricksen had…"

"Yes, Sam? What about them?"

"Do you have the same questions, sir?" The scared-puppy look had not left Sam's face.

 _Will you answer them if I ask?_

Sheriff Moore sighed. No. He had made a decision, twenty years ago when his daughter was born. He had decided to raise her to make her own choices. He had decided again as she became a teenager to slowly let the reigns of parental control ease, and vanish. He had decided to teach her, and then trust her, and he did.

No matter how hard that might be.

"Of course I do, Sam. Do you want to talk about it?"

"No. I want to forget about all of it."

Sheriff Moore allowed the silence to stretch. Sometimes, a person who wanted to talk would take advantage of the silence. It was an old interrogation trick.

Sam's mouth twitched, but then he shook his head.

"I've left that life behind, sir. I really have."

"Let us hope that is true, for my daughter's sake. Things that you want to leave behind don't always want to let you go." Sheriff Moore picked up a newspaper clipping from the stack of paperwork on the desk and held it up for Sam. The young man's face was there in color, Jessica right next to him. "You made the front page, Sam. If there is anything you're hiding from, anybody who might want to harm you or those you love, now is the time to tell me."

Sam's eyes widened as he stared at the picture. "The front page?" He did not sound happy; rather he whined like a child told he had to do chores. Somehow, his puppy-like frustration was more reassuring to Sheriff Moore than anything else. This was a nuisance, not a danger.

"No, sir. There is no one who would see that, and decide to come hurt me or Jess. I didn't leave any enemies behind. Just my family. They would never hurt me."

"Alright then." With a wave of his hand, Sheriff Moore sent Sam back to work.

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On a back road in Idaho, under a star-spangled sky, someone else was reading the Lakeport newspaper. Harold Strickler had stopped for a sandwich and a shot of caffeine. He sat back in the driver's seat, the red glow of his cigarette illuminated the front page. He studied the face pictured there, memorizing every detail.

Harold had first heard about his brother's death through this newspaper. He did not know who brought it or why. He only took the local paper, for the tiny Montana village where he lived. Yet the Lakeport newspaper had landed on his doorstep a week ago, wrapped up with a bow and smelling like rotten eggs. He's spent to long working for organized crime to ignore a signal like that.

The call from Uncle Tommy had come two days later. Harold hadn't had contact, hadn't worked a job, for over ten years, but his uncle still made sure he knew when important things happened to family. Births. Weddings. Funerals.

He'd let himself mourn for three days; cut his hair, wore black, the whole nine yards. Then, he had opened the safe kept in his basement, kissed his wife and children good-bye, and set out to do what he swore he would never do again. The Family Business will never let go completely. That's what Uncle Tommy had said, when Harold left the city and moved half a continent away. One way or the other, you'll be dragged back in.

He'd punched his uncle in the nose and told him to lose his number.

Uncle Tommy hadn't done that, and over the years, Harold had been grateful. Now, he knew that Uncle Tommy was right. It didn't matter how far you ran, you can't run from family or the job.

Strickler flicked the cigarette away and started up his car. He had one last job to complete.

000

 **Note: Well, Dean and Strickler are on their way. So is Caleb. What will happen when they hit town? Will Henricksen let this go, or will he keep digging? Keep reading to find out!**

 **I was a little rushed putting this chapter together, if I made any errors, I'm sorry! Please let me know what you think in the reviews!**


	7. Intermission

"Where have I seen that kid before?" Henricksen sat back at his desk in the rented office space the Bureau had found for this operation. He had his feet propped up on the desk, and twirled a pen between his fingers.

He couldn't shake the feeling that he was missing something. He knew he had seen the young intern-Winchester-before. He hadn't realized it until the inquiry hearing, when the boy had pushed just to see where his boiling point was (deliberately, Henricksen was almost sure). He'd seen that annoying eye-roll before.

It didn't add up, none of it. Winchester was clearly familiar with anti-interrogation techniques, it had been the boy's temper that had gotten the better of him, but he had let nothing slip. No new information or anything that would point to his past or implicate himself or others. Nothing to explain how a 22-year old, skinny as a scarecrow with puppy dog eyes and a polo shirt, had managed to kill one of the most effective hit-men Chicago had ever produced.

Sam Winchester was a puzzle, and Victor Henricksen did not like puzzles. He liked clear patterns of behavior. Everything should fit into a tidy line of logic, but he couldn't connect the dots here because there were too many of them missing.

"Roseville, Illinois."

Henricksen dropped his feet from the desk, tucked his pen behind his ear, and stared at his partner. The other agent, Brian Morris, had the look of a man who had just reached into the cookie jar and come out victorious.

"What?"

"You asked where you had seen Sam Winchester before, sir. Roseville, Illinois." Morris held up the file in his hands. "Ten years ago. Sam and his brother Dean were interrogated in relation to a credit card fraud case involving their father, John Winchester."

"Credit cards?" Henricksen buried his head in his hands. "Ten years ago?"

"Yes, sir." Morris hesitated a moment. "When you were in white collar, after that fiasco in Michigan. You-"

"Yes, I know why I got put on white collar for three years. You can spare me the highlight reel."

Morris coughed, in that quiet way of his. Henricksen was never sure if he was laughing at him, silently lecturing him, or both. Leave it to the Chief to partner him with a silent cynic as a nanny.

"You don't remember?"

Morris was nearly equal to Henricksen in rank. Which meant that Victor could not discipline his fellow agent himself. Any complaints would have to go through the Chief. Who had set up the match in the first place. On purpose.

"I tried to block that entire three years from my memory." White collar had not been a pleasant place for Victor, who lived for the thrill of the chase and the adrenaline rush. At least, that's what his wife had said, as she walked out the door with all of her possessions in hand, never to return. He'd been assigned to white collar while in the middle of his first divorce. Coming home to an empty home after dealing with the humiliating demotion; Henricksen had lived in a fog for a few years. He didn't care to look at those memories too closely.

"You interrogated them yourself, sir. Without waiting for child services. You were only suspended for a week; not too bad, considering." Morris flopped the file on top of Henricksen's desk, scattering his paperwork.

Henricksen stared at the pictures in the file. One was of a boy in his late teens with a roguish grin, winking at the camera. They had never been able to pin down exactly how old Dean was, he had switched between 16 and 18 depending on whether it was most convenient for him to have the immunity of a minor, or the authority of an adult. He had been a pain in the neck, but in the end, Henricksen had to give the boy a grudging respect for handling a tense situation extremely well.

The second picture told a very different story. Sam Winchester had been only twelve at the time, and small for his age. His shaggy hair, baggy clothes, and puppy-dog facial expressions had the female agents on the team, and half the men to boot, melting. It was one of them who had ratted Henricksen out to the boss, he was sure. That should have been an easy interview, but it had gone sideways very quickly. Henricksen remembered the vicious fire and dismissive eye-roll, as effective as a cattle prod in making big, tough guys really, really angry.

"That kid. Sammy, he went by Sammy then. That little ****." Henricksen shook his head. "Oh, Sammy. I knew your daddy was into something more than credit card fraud."

"Grave desecration, sir." Morris flopped another file onto the desk. "Among other things. ATF has been after him for years, he's a regular customer with some of their arms dealers. Never knew we were both working the same case until we got that new fancy online database you hate so much."

Henricksen glared at Morris. The other man was never going to let him live that debate down.

"Does that answer your questions, sir? Can we close this case now?" Morris held up a hand to forestall any argument from his partner. "The Sheriff was right, this isn't relevant."

"Fine." Henricksen pushed the old Winchester file off of the paperwork for Strickler. "If you'll let me finish my forms. The paperwork for killing a man-"

"Yes, sir. Far more tedious than if you brought him in alive. I think they make it that way on purpose." Morris paused, hovering.

Henricksen tapped his pen against the desktop. "Yes?"

"When you get the paperwork done, you're suspended. Again. For putting an untrained civilian in the field."

Henricksen threw his pen across the room as Morris beat a hasty retreat. Proper procedure had always felt like more hindrance than help, and Henricksen held the agency record for suspensions. He also held the record for successful arrests, so he was in no danger of being fired. But his wife was not going to be happy to have him underfoot during yet another 'unpaid vacation.' Winchesters brought him the worst luck.

He hoped Sam was telling the truth, that he would really stay 'out' of whatever he'd been raised 'in'. Then there would be not reason for Victor Henricksen to see Sam Winchester ever again.

Henricksen eyed the file on John Winchester. He would need a project to fill his time, what with a week of suspension coming his way.

 **End Note: Yes, I am writing a story about Henricksen and the young Winchesters. It is called Corn, Pie and the FBI. Please check it out!**


	8. Family

**Well, we've met Jessica's father. What about the rest of the family? Get ready to meet the Moores. And of course, Sam's family is close by, too! Hope you enjoy.**

Chapter 8: Family

Sun. Bright, warm, yellow light filling every corner. Sam never got tired of it. He had spend too much of his life in the darkness. The dark of night, the dark of pain, the dark of secrets and half-truths. California always had sun. Even in the winter, the land was warm and comfortable. Now, in the middle of July, the sun was bigger and brighter than ever.

Sam could feel the warmth pour through him, walking hand in hand with Jessica down Lakeport's small business district. She twined her fingers through his and they strolled, basking in the light.

This was life. Bright, beautiful, sunny. Sam needed the sun, needed it even more now than he had before. Dreams crowded his nights, filled the darkness with images of blood, or Strickler's glassy, dead eyes. Since the inquiry interview, it had been worse. That FBI agent loomed large, larger than he did in real life, towering over Sam as if he were 12 instead of 22. It reminded Sam of another encounter with the FBI, long ago when they had been after Dad for all of the credit card fraud. Henricksen reminded him strongly of that man, but that man had been skinny, and he had hair. This pudgy, balding man couldn't be the same person, could he? It didn't matter. The night was over and the sun was here.

The sun kept the dreams away.

"Are you okay?" Jessica worked her hand up to his elbow, pulling his attention back toward her. "You've been quiet lately."

Sam took his eyes off the sky and glanced around the sidewalk, bustling with afternoon foot traffic. People glanced his direction, paused to whisper behind their hands. Sometimes, complete strangers would wave or try to say hi.

"Do you really need more clothes?" Sam fiddled with the ruffle on her blouse. "You've got enough."

"I need something new for the next school year, and so do you." Jessica followed his sideways glance. A young child was pointing at Sam and trying to cross the street, but his mother steered him away. "They won't bite, you know."

"I just…I don't like being the-"

"Hero?" Jessica cut him off before Sam could say 'freak.'

"Different."

Jessica was right. Most people were happy to see him. They didn't shy away, or tease him for being out of place. But any attention, even good attention, was just a reminder of how different Sam really was.

"I promise, you are very, painfully, boringly normal." Jessica grasped the back of his head and pulled him close for a kiss. "My man comes home from work on time every day, wears a polo shirt, and even lost to my dad at bowling last week. What could be more normal than that?"

"Liar," Sam whispered. Jessica just shrugged, laced her fingers through his again, and tugged him down the sidewalk.

"Jess!" A shrill voice called from down the block. It belonged to a tall, slim blonde who looked remarkably like the woman of the same description currently wrapped around Sam's arm.

That didn't last long. Jess squealed and dashed down the sidewalk, closing the distance between them.

"Jenna!"

The young women looked like they were about to collide, but slowed at the last minute to wrap each other in a hug, spinning together like a top. A heavier-set woman with similar features, her hair peppered with gray, smiled and held out her hand to prevent them from careening into a lamp post.

Sam took his time joining the group. He had met Jessica's little sister Jenna just once before. She had been wearing red, with a tinsel boa, at the Moore family Christmas. Jenna had been away for most of the summer, studying abroad in Vienna.

"Sam." Jessica's mother, Sandy, greeted him coolly. This was the first time they had seen each other since the incident with Strickler. Her normally broad smile appeared force, and there was a worry crease between her eyes.

"Ohmygosh!" Jessia was still bouncing, wrapped in her sister's arms. "I didn't think you were coming back until Tuesday!"

"Well, I was supposed to take a flight to Heathrow and lay over in London for 36 hours, just enough time to catch a show on the West End and go for a ride in the Eye. But there was something wrong with the flight. It would have been delayed ten hours and there wouldn't have been time for anything except a lot of waiting. So here I am!" Jenna spread her arms wide and spun around, as if she were the greatest give Jessica would ever receive.

"Someone could have told me! Mom!" Jessica rounded on Sandy, whose eyes were dancing as she watched her daughter's antics.

"I wanted to surprise you." Jenna pulled Jessica's attention back to her. "I've got tons to tell you. It's been awful, not talking for a whole month."

Sam was surprised at the sting in those words. A whole month. For his entire life, he'd never spent that much time away from Dean, and now, he hadn't spoken to his brother for three whole years.

"And I need to know what I've been missing. I saw the newspaper." Jenna's eyes rose to look at Sam. "You've been holding out on us, Winchester."

Silence fell over the small group. The crinkles around Sandy's eyes deepened.

"I'll be safe from muggers as long as I'm with him." Jessica reached out and took Sam's hand with a smile.

Jenna snorted. "I'll say." Jenna nodded across the street to the karate dojo. "Come on, Sammy, show us your moves. I'll bet Mr. Jeong won't mind."

Sam felt his face flush. "I don't think that's a good idea…"

"I'd be very interested to see what else you can do, Sam." Sandy had her hands on her hips and seemed to be measuring his arm muscles with her eyes. "Jenna is a black belt. It could be fun."

"I don't know karate." The plea sounded feeble, even in his own ears, as two women grabbed his hands and pulled him toward the dojo. Jess showed no signs of rescuing him; she had her hand over her mouth to cover a giggle, but there was also a curious look in her eyes.

She knew that Sam had killed a man, but knowing the fact and seeing him fight were two very different things.

He also knew from experience that Jenna would never give up. If he didn't let her hustle him to the dojo now, she'd get her fight somehow. Even if it meant jumping him in a dark alley. So Sam let himself be pulled.

000

Jessica sat on the dojo floor, legs crossed, squished between her mother and a squirming ten-year-old trying to cross his toes. Everyone had left their shoes at the door. Jessica was familiar with the dojo protocol. She'd never taken karate; ballet had been her activity. But Jenna, had adored karate since she was five and saw her first karate movie. In order to get her to stop beating up on her big sister, their parents had funded karate lessons, and all of them made regularly treks to the dojo for exhibitions of skill and competitions. Jenna had always loved the challenge, and never minded the bruises.

At nineteen, Jessica's little sister was known as the firebrand in town. Lakeport had all breathed a collective sigh of relief when she'd gone to study abroad after high school graduation. With no more rules and no threat of suspension to hang over hear head, there was no telling what she might have gotten up to.

Jessica loved her little sister dearly, but she was dearly glad that Jenna had chosen to go to college in San Diego instead of Palo Alto. Despite being the older sister, Jessica had grown up defending her property, and later her boyfriends, from her younger sibling. Jenna had never tried to steal any of the boys away. No, it simply seemed that she resented whenever Jessica brought someone bigger and stronger than her into the house. Jenna was always finding a way to challenge them, put them in their place, let them know that she ruled this roost.

Which was why Jessica had been so happy to find Sam, with his puppy dog eyes and sweet demeanor. He wasn't threatening at all, and Jenna hadn't bothered him, much. Until today.

Normally, Jessica would have put a stop to it. But Sam had been so quiet lately, maybe this would jolt him out of that shell he was hiding in. Besides, despite the fact she'd decided to let Sam keep his secrets and not push, she was _curious_.

 _If he really doesn't want to, he can defend himself_.

Sam looked like a lost puppy who had wandered into the dojo by accident and didn't quite know which way to go. He stood, barefoot, in the center of the blue mat, surrounded by kids in white karate gis with a tiny Asian man bobbing excitedly around them. Jenna wore a borrowed gi and danced from foot to foot, hands raised and ready, heckling.

"Come on, Sammy! Bet you're not fast enough to catch me!"

Sam didn't rise to the bait. He just watched her dance around him, as if she were an annoying fly and he hoped she would go away before he had to swat her. Jenna lunged, kicked, punched, with all her speed and strength. Sam just sort of stepped around her, like a dancer. He blocked a blow or two, but refused to strike at her. Jenna heckled some more, trying to rile him up, until he finally reached out, grabbed her by the leg and arm, lifted her as if she weighed no more than a doll, and placed her on the mat with a soft thump.

"Aw, come on!" Jenna slugged him in the arm. "That was terrible, you didn't even try."

"I don't really think I needed to. How long has it been since you practiced?"

Jenna, who practiced three times a week, squealed in outrage. Jessica could feel her mother vibrating with contained laughter. Jess didn't bother to hide her grin. Jenna had deserved that one.

"Fighting someone half your size isn't really a fair match."

One of the parents on the other side of the room stepped forward. It was Jim Guster, a Marine with Semper Fi tattooed on his muscled arms and a buzz cut that looked sharp enough to slice flesh. His kids, eight and ten years old, looked up wide eye, and cheered.

"Go, Dad!"

It was a shame. If Jim had been fifteen years young, and single, he might have been a good match for Jenna.

Sam turned around, still crouched over Jenna, shaking his head. "I don't really-"

Jim didn't let him finish. He swept his ankle under Sam's leg, sending Sam sprawling. "Come on, little guy. Let's see how you do against someone twice your size." Jim had an eager glint in his eyes. Boys and testosterone, always wanting to see who is stronger. He'd probably been itching to test Sam's skill ever since he saw the article in the paper.

Sam rolled and flipped to his feet in a neat move that Jessica knew Jenna would try to re-create for weeks, probably twisting her ankle (again) in the process. The fire in his eyes was not friendly, it was annoyed.

Jenna squealed with glee. "Oh, this is gonna be good!"

Jim grinned and lunged. Jessica couldn't name the moves they used, most were not from karate, but a mix of martial arts styles. All of the most brutal and effective methods for tearing muscle and breaking bone packed into a tight dance of fists, feet, knees and elbows. Sam ducked and rolled and jumped, faster than Jess had ever seen him move. He'd been so uncoordinated, when she'd tried to get him to surf, but here he had perfect balance. He didn't duck or flinch when Jim landed a blow, just pressed harder. The kids stared, wide-eyed. The dojo owner babbled excitedly and pulled out a camera.

Sam, where did you learn that? Jessica might not have taken any karate lessons herself, but she'd been around training and tournaments long enough to know the level of skill she was looking at. It took years of dedicated practice to be able to move like that. Why won't you tell me anything? The depth of what she did not know about Sam was becoming increasingly clear.

"Where'd you find him? Did you know he could do that?" Jenna watched in rapt fascination.

"Bet you're glad he held back," their mother said.

Jenna glared and stuck out her tongue, but they all knew Mom was right. Sam was dangerous.

But so was Jim Guster. He knew how to kill, he had taught men to kill as a mixed martial arts instructor with the Marine Corps. He matched Sam move for move as they danced around the mat, his kids watching with their fingers in their mouths. He was a good father, a kind man who volunteered with the fire department and the children's ward at the hospital.

Knowing how to do dangerous things didn't mean someone was bad, or that loving them was dangerous. With his former job with the marines, Jim had probably not been allowed to tell his wife a lot of things, and they seemed happy in their marriage. Sometimes secrets were necessary. Sometimes they were just a fact of life.

Sam finally pinned Jim against the mat. Jim laughed, and nailed Sam in the ribs with his elbow, making the younger man topple sideways. Both men lay flat on their backs, wheezing.

"Let's call it a draw, ok kid?"

Sam laughed, and nodded. "Sure. You're pretty good."

"You too, Winchester. I'd love to know who taught you to fight like that." Jim's face was red from the imprint of Sam's knuckles, and they would both have bruises tomorrow.

Sam just shrugged, not saying a word. But the crowd was full of gossip, whispers, bits of speculation that would turn into rumors by this time next Sunday. Jessica could see the light in Jenna's eyes, matched by the curiosity in their mother's penetrating gaze.

"He's a good man, Mom. He doesn't have to tell us everything."

Sandy quirked an eyebrow, acknowledging that she had heard, but did not respond.

000

Sam blinked, staring bewildered at the two purses in his hand. One moment, Jessica had been cooing over his bruised jaw and Jenna had been full of questions about moves he had used. The next, they had spotted a pretty dress in a shop window and abandoned both him and their purses.

Beside him, Jessica's mom cackled with laughter. He blinked and turned his lost-puppy expression on her. She laughed harder. "Oh, you should see your face. And to think ten minutes ago, you put Jim Guster flat on his back."

Sam grinned at the memory of the fight. He'd been so annoyed when the big marine had started in, but the end of it he was almost having fun. It had been a long time since he had used his body like that, testing every muscle to the maximum of its strength. There had been a delicious satisfaction in finally winning, too. And a comforting familiarity with Jim's final move. It was something Dean would do.

Sam turned his gaze back to the purses, so he wouldn't have to think about his brother, and how much he missed him. Seeing Jenna and Jessica together always made him pine for that closeness he'd once had with Dean.

"Uh-they wanted to shop but they didn't want to take their money with them?"

Sandy laughed again and relieved him of the purses. "They think they'll spend less if they leave their purses with someone else. Then it takes more effort to get back to the credit card and spend the money."

"Sure, ok." Sam settled on a nearby bench and Sandy settled next to him. Her smile faded and Sam could feel the tension in the silence. She turned to him with a steady gaze, and he knew. This had just become an interrogation.

 _Please, don't_.

He'd already been over this with Jess, and with her father. Surely that was enough? Besides, this was Jessica's mother. She was nice, but the idea of a mom still felt unreal to Sam. He never knew quite what to do with her.

"So, Sam, it seems you've been holding out on us."

Sam sighed and settled in. There was no point in running away. Not if he wanted to be part of this family someday.

"I don't like to talk about my family, ma'am. It's not a very…it's not an easy topic for me."

Sandy raised an eyebrow. "Oh. It's ma'am now, is it? I do wonder what your parents are like. Well, your father, anyway." Sandy knew that his mother was dead. "Every time you sense a confrontation, you get so formal, like a soldier with his drill sergeant."

"A drill sergeant is a good way to describe my dad." Sam felt the tension ease a little between his shoulders. Sandy was a good woman. She had made him feel welcome and at home for Christmas, and she'd made more pot roast than Sam could eat, just to see him finally full for once. This wasn't about finding something wrong with him, as every conversation with Dad seemed to go.

"My husband told me you saw the counselor."

 _That's supposed to be confidential_! Sam stifled the urge to scream and waited for her to continue. He wouldn't have seen the counselor at all, if he could avoid it. But it was standard policy for all law enforcement to have a psychological assessment after killing someone in the line of duty. There had been no way around it. Sam thought the woman had given him a good report. After all, Sheriff Moore had let him come back to work.

"She said that killing a man had almost no affect on you, and she didn't need to see you again."

Sam stared at his toes, waiting to see where she was taking this. There had to be a point coming, soon. She didn't act like she was ready to kick him out of town for being a cold-blooded killer, but Sam had been run out of enough towns to know that people could be very nice right up to the moment when they stabbed you in the back.

"You don't have to tell everyone your dark secrets, Sam." Sandy reached out and took his hand. "But if you ever need someone to talk to, we're here. I can't imagine what kind of life you've had, to be so familiar with death that a man like Strickler didn't bother you at all."

"It doesn't scare you?" Sam looked at her hand on his, warm and steady, not shaking at all. He looked up into her eyes, calm and penetrating, but with no hint of fear. "Most people are scared, when they see what my life was like, when they see what I know how to do."

"No, Sam, it doesn't scare me. I'm married to the Sheriff. I know what kind of people are in the world. I'm just happy that you are able to leave that life behind. You're always welcome in our home, Sam." Sandy smirked. "Jenna will probably never stop pestering you now. But that just means you're family."

Sam tried to swallow the lump in his throat and squeezed Sandy's hand. "Family."

Images of Dad and Dean, shadowed and grim, lurked in the corner of his mind. The price of a new life had been leaving his family behind. It had been a hard price to pay. Could it be that someone could have more family than just what they were born into?

000

"Hot blonde, hot blonde. Ohhh! Hot mom. Sammy! You dog." _Which one is he sleeping with_?

Dean watched the scene outside the dojo through his binoculars, perched in the fire escape of an old building halfway down the block. He would rather be in the Impala, but Sam would recognize the sound of that engine a mile away. For now, Dean wanted to keep out of sight.

Sam had made it pretty clear, three years ago, that he had no need of his family and no desire ever to see them again.

"Ah! That's the one." Dean grinned as he watched the taller of the blonde sisters rise up on her toes and place a kiss on Sam's cheek. Then she and the other girl took hands and practically ran into a nearby store where they could be seen hustling the sales staff to take the dress off the mannequin in the window.

Dean turned is view back to Sam, who stood with a bewildered look in his face, staring at the two purses in his hands.

"Sucker!"

The older woman was still with him. Spending quality time with the parents? Dean shook his head. This was serious. In his long career, Dean had never once met a girl's parents. Now Sam was sitting on a bench, engaged in what looked like a very serious talk with the mom.

"Please, lady, look into my deep brown eyes, see that I am nothing but a harmless puppy, and don't think of all the dirty things I do with your daughter at night!" Dean couldn't lip read, but he could guess how this conversation was going. He'd been whammied with that poor-me puppy-dog look far to often. It was nice to see someone else succumb, for a change.

From the look of it, the girlfriend's mom was hooked. Her face was all sympathy and concern, and at one point she even reached out to take Sam's hand. They were probably having some sappy conversation that belonged in a chick flick, about family and unconditional love.

 _Back away from my brother_!

Dean didn't know where that thought came from. He wasn't jealous. No. He didn't want any part of this chick-flick family bonding thing. It was getting a little nauseating. Dean dropped the binoculars for a moment. When he raised them again, he scanned the perimeter. No suspicious activity.

The girls came back out of the shop to reclaim their purses. Sam wrapped and arm around his girl with a smile so blinding Dean had to blink against the glare. They strolled away together, cuddling as they walked.

 _Well, at least he's happy_.

Dean's phone rang. Caleb's number displayed on the caller ID.

Dean flipped the phone open and started his report without preamble. "I've got nothing here. No sign of anyone tailing Sam. Of course, Sammy's oblivious, not watching his back at all, and there's a girlfriend with a family."

He could hear Caleb's wince over the phone. "Plenty of innocent bystanders to be used as bait, or just get killed by being in the way."

"Yep." Dean paused for a moment to check out little sister through his binoculars. Too bad she wasn't a few years older… "You got anything?"

Caleb had been sitting at the rest stop on the best route between Strickler's home and Lake County. "Nothing. If he was headed to Lake County, he'd have been through here by now."

"Where else could he be going?"

"Who else helped kill his brother? The FBI. Maybe Sam's safe."

"Yeah, maybe." Dean didn't really believe in 'maybe's. If something bad was going to happen, it was going to happen to the Winchesters. "Maybe he's just saving Sam for last."

"Right. I'll head to town, meet you at the shack. We can take turns keeping an eye on Sam."

"Right." Dean snapped the phone closed and jumped down from the fire escape. He had to walk five blocks to the spot where he'd parked the Impala. If he was going to be following Sam for a few days, he was going to have to find a different car.

000

 **NEXT: Where is Strickler headed? Also, the Lake Co. jail is going to play host to another familiar face. What will Sam do?**

 **Thanks so much for reading, I hope you are still enjoying the story. Please let me know what you think in the reviews!**


	9. Another Familiar Face

Chapter 9: Familiar Faces

Victor sat at the breakfast table, staring at the space where his plate used to be. Rose has cleared it away with hers before pecking him on the cheek and heading out the door to work. She'd cooked, because he had been slow to get out of bed. She had cleared the table, because it was convenient. But she'd left the breakfast dishes, and the dishes from dinner the night before, piled in the sink. It was a clear message.

 _If you're going to be home, do your share of the work_.

Victor glared at the looming stack of plates and pans. Another enemy to be conquered. He attacked the plates with vigor, followed by the silverware, saving the pots for last. Shiny and streak-free, he set them to dry in the rack and removed his rubber gloves. Battle complete, armor no longer needed.

He turned from the sink, and the silent, empty apartment stared back at him. It was spotless. He'd excised the last bit of dirt yesterday. There were no more battles to fight.

Victor sighed. He hated suspension. Which was the whole point, of course.

At least they let him take files home. The old white-collar crimes case of John Winchester was proving to be very enlightening, and yet somehow the pile of information only cast more mystery onto Sam.

Victor had been over the file a dozen times in his first two days of suspension. He still couldn't figure out what motivated John Winchester, what he was after, what goal he hoped to achieve or what he thought he was running from. Because more and more the Winchester travel pattern resembled that of a man running away from something, but from what, Henricksen had no idea.

He went to fetch his keys and went to open the safe where he kept all confidential files when at home. It was a hidden safe under the bathroom sink, not a place most thieves looked for valuable items.

The safe was not locked. The door stood slightly ajar. Henricksen flipped through the pile of paperwork. Only one thing was missing: the Winchester file.

Victor closed the door with a bang and swore. He quickly and efficiently searched the apartment. There, a small scuff mark on the floor. On the window sill, a swatch of fabric. The window slightly scratched by whatever device had been used to open it.

Someone had robbed the FBI agent while he slept in his own home, and did it so smoothly that Victor hadn't noticed anything amiss until he discovered the missing item. The thief was good, too good.

Strickler had been that good. Strickler had a whole family in the same business, all trained in the same tricks.

Henricksen's hackles rose. Something bad was going to happen to an innocent person very soon. He knew this without a doubt. He'd spend two days reading about the Winchester's, and he knew that Sam had a wide range of training and experience. But anyone could be taken by surprise. Henricksen's fingers twitched, but he didn't have his badge and gun to strap on anymore. They were back at his home FBI office, with the Chief.

It was the last thing he wanted to do, go crawling on his knees to beg a favor. Let everyone know he'd been robbed, humiliated in his own home. Admit that this time, he'd made a big mistake. One that could cost an innocent person their life.

But he had. He worked for the FBI for one reason; to save people and hunt down killers.

Henricksen pulled out his phone and dialed his boss. "Chief, it's about Sam Winchester."

000

Just another normal day back at the office. Biter coffee in his cup, deputies, lab staff and office staff bustling around, and a pile of paperwork on his desk. Sam took another swig of the what had been the dregs of the coffee pot, and grimaced when the bitter aftertaste hit. Yuck!

Such was the price of sleeping in, and rushing out the door without time to stop and drink the good stuff that Jessica made every morning. But their morning cuddle session had been worth it. It fortified him for the day, and gave him patience to deal with whatever came his way.

Angry drivers who wanted to contest their parking tickets, testy neighbors complaining about the state of the lawn next door, and a bleary-eyed man who had either been locked out of his home, or just too drunk to find the keys the night before. Sam had to find the proper paperwork and assist with filing forms, no matter how grouchy, angry, or tipsy the patrons were.

Halfway through the morning, Jenna came to see her dad. On her way out, she stopped at Sam's desk. With a huge, hopeful smile, she clasped her hands together.

"When are you going to teach me those moves you used on Jim?

Sam kept his eyes on his paperwork. If he didn't get this payment processed and the proper driver's license returned, the mother-of-six waiting in the lobby with her entire brood was going to have his head. The young children had just struck of a chant of 'ice cream! Ice cream now!" The mom glared at Sam. Sam glared at Jenna, but he couldn't hold the stern expression in the face of her sunny, hopeful face.

"Well, not now."

"Aw, come on, Sam!" Jenna leaned over Sam's desk, placing her arms on his paperwork so he had no choice but to look at her.

Sam rolled his eyes and looked away, but he couldn't stop the grin spreading across his face. "I don't know, I've never taught anyone before."

Jenna could sense weakness, and raised her hands in victory. "I'm bringing Jessica her souvenirs tonight before you guys leave. We could start then?"

Sam scratched his head. "I'm not sure Jess will appreciate us practicing karate in her living room…"

"I'll deal with Jess." Jenna wrapped him in a quick hug, then skipped away, humming happily.

Little sisters. Sam watched her go, wondering just how she had talked him into doing exactly what he had decided _not_ to do. He got the license to the mother-of-six, and looked around to see what was next on his to-do list.

Hardly anyone was at their desk. A deputy, Charlie Gaines, hurried past, a bag of popcorn in hand. He stopped at Deputy Farrell's desk and motioned her to come with him. "Hey, Farrell, what are you doing over here? You're missing all the fun."

Gaines gestured toward the desk filled with TV monitors used to review security footage. A growing cluster of staff were hunched over the screens, alternatively cheering and wincing as they watched whatever was playing. Odd. Usually, only the guys on night shift watched movies here.

 _Well, at least their not staring at me anymore_. Sam was glad that things had settle mostly back to normal. A few people still gave him wide berth, but nobody stared anymore, they had stopped whispering, and Strickler's name was mentioned less and less often. Jessica had been right.

Sam shuffled over to see what was catching everyone's attention. Farrell clapped him on the back. "Nice one, Sam. I've never seen anyone put Jim Guster on the mat before."

"Yeah, but Guster sure got him, too!" This from someone near the front of the crowd. "Play it again! We should use this for the next training in-service."

Sam stared as the fuzzy rewind screen faded to reveal a clear view of the dojo and his sparring match with the huge marine.

"Oh, come on! Where'd you get that?"

"Guster dropped it by this morning." Gaines popcorn spun around on his chair, cheerily munching on his snack.

Sam escaped from the cluster back to his desk. He was the freak, again. Yet this was different, somehow. Almost like his favorite high school, where he had beaten the class bully and met a teacher who inspired him to make his own life choices. Everyone here knew he was different, but they hadn't rejected him. They had embraced him even more than before. People who had been distant now talked to him. People who had been friendly now seemed to have more to talk about.

Could he be the freak and be normal at the same time? The thought was too strange to contemplate for long.

He didn't have much time, anyway. His name rang out from the crowd around the screening desk, called by several voices at once.

"Winchester!"

Sam looked up. Gaines pointed to the booking counter, where Deputy Mann stood with a stuffed look on his face and another prisoner in cuffs.

"Winchester, I think Deputy Mann needs your help again!"

Deputy Mann turned a very interesting shade of purple and his cheeks wobbled as they puffed. "I can handle him."

"I'm not so sure, he looks tough. Maybe Winchester will protect you."

There were hoots of laughter from the crowd, and Mann just turned redder. The prisoner beside him took it all in with raised eyebrows, lips pressed together as if biting back his own laughter.

Caleb had always been a quiet man, never prone to laughing at other's jokes. Dean used to make a game of seeing how long it took to make him crack.

Caleb nodded cordially at Sam across the room, not saying a word. He stood, relaxed, as if hand cuffs were a normal part of his wardrobe and getting finger-printed was a common as brushing his teeth.

Somehow, his calm demeanor helped Sam keep his face straight. He nodded back, as if greeting an old friend across a booking desk were something that happened every day.

An entire conversation rested in those quiet nods.

 _Hello, Sam. Long time no see. You're looking well._

 _Thanks. I see you've been caught again._

 _Don't worry, I'll be out of here by dinner time._

 _I hope so. I'd invite you over, but my girlfriend might object. She's the Sheriff's daughter, you see. It could be awkward._

 _Sure, Sam, I understand. Always good to see you, though. You need any guns, you know who to call._

 _Sure, Caleb. Thanks for stopping by. Best of luck, since I probably won't see you again._

Finally, the deputy hustled Caleb through to the jail. Sam saw Caleb snag the deputy's phone out of the corner of his eye. Sam didn't even think twice about not reporting it to the guard. If Sam told Sheriff Moore, he'd have to explain that he knew how to pick pockets. Then, he'd probably have to give Jenna lessons.

Sam bent his head over his desk, trying to ignore the small party still going on as the Lake County Sheriff's dept. replayed the fight again. His old life and his new life had collided, and the result was not catastrophe.

Yet the old fear tugged at Sam's thoughts, a hook that cut through everything else and would not let go. Caleb was a Hunter and a gun runner. There was no business for the latter in Lakeport, so he had to be here for the former. Either he was just passing through, or there was a monster nearby. Sam bit his lip. He had to find out which.

000

Silence hung over the Lake Co Sheriff's Dept. Sheriff Moore had emerged from his office, seen the party around the surveillance viewers, and had soundly dismissed everyone back to their work. The smell of buttered popcorn still hung in the air, but work progressed at an unprecedented level of efficiently for the next hour.

Sam watched the hands on the clock tick toward the noon hour. Right as the minute hand slid past the twelve, a woman in hair net and apron emerged from the cafeteria doors. Sam rose to intercept her.

"Hey, I'll get that lunch to the prisoner."

The woman released the tray without complaint. Sam grabbed his own lunch and waved at the security guard monitoring the jail cells, gesturing to the tray in his hands. The guard buzzed him through.

The Lake Co Sheriff's department was old enough and small enough to still have several small cells with floor-to-ceiling bars, like one saw in old Western films. Each had a toilet, sink, and four cots bolted to the wall.

Caleb lay in one, legs crossed at the ankle, hands on his bells, staring at the ceiling. A flick of his eyes told him who had entered the room. He spoke without moving.

"I've been in dozens of jails, Sam, and they all have the exact same ceiling. Different flooring, different wall paneling, but the exact same ceiling. Ever wonder how that happens?"

Sam shrugged. "Never really thought about it. I got your lunch."

"Ah." Caleb sat up and reached through the bars for the tray. "Thank you." He set the tray aside and shook Sam's hand firmly. His grip was rough and calloused, but warm and welcoming. "Good to see you again."

"Good to see you, Caleb. How have you been?" Sam pulled up a folding chair and opened his own brown bag lunch. It felt good, sitting with an old friend, just chatting.

"Oh, you know me. Business as usual. Drive to Mexico, buy guns, bribe the border guard, sell guns. Burn a few bones here and there, get the occasional free lunch in jail. Usually, the free lunch comes with a chat with the FBI. What did they do to these green beans?" Caleb held up a wilted bean on his fork and wrinkled his nose. "Prison food. That's another thing that's always the same."

"What did Deputy Mann arrest you for? I didn't think there would be much call for guns in Lakeport."

Caleb shook his head, making a face as he chewed his green beans. "There's not. I was just passing through, squatting in a shack of the old highway. The deputy took offence to my encroaching on his private space. I think he spends the day there, instead of out on patrol like he's supposed to."

Sam raised his eyebrows. "Really? Deputy Mann sleeping on the job?"

Caleb snorted. "Oh, not sleeping. But enough about that. How are you doing, kid?"

Sam smiled. "I'm good, really good. I've got a good job, nice girlfriend, her family is great. I think I could get used to this."

Caleb returned his smile. That was why Sam had come in to talk. Caleb was one person who had never questioned the way Sam felt about hunting, or what he wanted in life. He took people as they were, and supported them no matter where that might lead.

"I'm glad to see you happy, Sam. Don't worry, there's no hunt here. I'm just passing through. When I know there's danger headed you're way, I'll tell you."

Sam let out a breath of relief. That was the _real_ reason he'd come in here. "Good. Do you need me to put in a good word for you?"

"Nah." Caleb shook his head. "Though you might tell the Sheriff to go take a look at the set up the deputy has out at that cabin." His eyes twinkled with some hidden secret. "Hey, have you still got the same cell number?"

"Um, yeah, actually." Sam hadn't changed phones since New York, and that fateful fight with Dad. He still had all his old numbers, and he still had theirs. It was such a clear tie to his old life, he wondered he'd never let it go before. Delete it all.

"Good. I'll need to know how to get a hold of you, once you get that law degree."

Sam raised his eyebrows. "Oh?" He paused as the full force of Caleb's meaning sunk in. "Oh, no, I'm not going to be that kind of lawyer."

Caleb sniffed at his roll, ripped it in half, and dunked it in the canned apples to soften it up. "No? You'd do it well, and you could do some good. Helping hunters when they run afoul of the law. You know how it is. I've known many good men who spent several years in jail because the people on the other side of the law bench don't understand what's out there."

 _I hadn't even thought about it._ Sam stopped the words before they came out of his mouth. It was a new idea, one worth thinking about. Was there a way to be connected to his old life, his friends and family, and still have this new life, too?

"A hunter's lawyer? Huh. But to do that, I'd have to pass the bar in, like, the entire lower 48."

"Ah, well. You could do it. Can the laws really be that different from state to state?"

"Yes." Sam nodded his head firmly. "Yeah, they really are."

"Well, just in California, then. It would do us a world of good, having someone like you on our side." Caleb passed his empty tray through the bars. "Better out there than in here. I can't believe folk pay good money for a meal like that." He put his hand on his chest to stifle a burp. "How about a cookie, huh?"

Sam paused as he lifted the cookie bag from the bottom of his lunch. Dad had stolen his cookies, when he'd been in this same position. Sam shook the thought away. Caleb wasn't Dad, and Dad wasn't here anymore. "Yeah, sure."

 _A Hunter's lawyer_. The thought stuck in his mind. _I could see Dean again. I could see Pastor Jim_. Could he live that life? It was a nice thought, all the good parts of his life that he had left behind, able to blend with the new life he'd found.

He could just picture Jess, asking about his day when he came home. Who he had defended. And why. Every day he would have to come up with a new lie.

So. Maybe not a good idea.

Caleb finished his cookie, brushed the crumbs from his fingers, and pulled a cell phone out of his pocket. "Here, better give this back to the deputy."

"Who'd you call?" Sam asked.

Caleb shrugged and leaned back, crossing his hands behind his head. "Just a buddy to bail me out. You take care, Sam. If you change your number, let me know. Ok?"

"Sure."

Sam tossed his empty lunch bag and exited the jai, only to stop short in front of Sheriff Moore, who was staring at him with narrowed eyes. Sam froze. He didn't tense or let anything show on his expression. He just stopped, held still, and waited to see what the other man would say.

"Sam, having lunch with the prisoner?"

Sam was acting on pure reflex, because the critical thinking centers of his brain had shut down. Thought didn't enter into the decision, only years and years of habit. Camouflage, hide, evade, misdirect. _We do what we do and we shut up about it._

"Uh, yeah. The guys were being so hard on Deputy Mann, I thought I'd save him a step and bring the prisoner's lunch." Sam held up the empty tray to prove his statement. As if this were perfectly routine. _Act normal, and they'll think you are normal_. It always worked for Dean. Sam had never been as confident. He held his breath, waiting.

"Do you know that man?" Sheriff Moore asked.

Sam blinked, and shook his head. "No, sir. Never seen him before in my life." He was still on autopilot. The lie slid off his tongue without a thought. "He didn't like the green beans, that's all I know. Oh, and he says you should check out that cabin where Deputy Mann keeps arresting people."

Sheriff Moore frowned, curious about the deputy now, and no longer concerned about Sam. "Hm. Maybe I should."

000

 _I need a sniper rifle_.

Harold Strickler sat back in his motel room, the contents of the Winchester file scattered around him. He's been out of the business for ten years, and that had made him more cautious with this job than any before. He'd been trained to research the target, learn every detail, and strike at the easiest time. A good assassin hardly ever got into a fight. They struck quickly, quietly, and without warning.

But the file made it clear that Winchester could see most normal tactics a mile away. He new how to spot a tail, would notice someone lying in wait in his room, and could easily fight back. A fight would leave the end of this encounter to chance. Strickler could not know who would win. He would have the element of surprise, but Winchester had youth and speed.

He'd taken Gene down. Harold would take not chances on losing.

Which meant he needed to go shopping. A sniper rifle was the only real option when taking on someone as well trained as Winchester. It was efficient, the least likely to be spotted, and hard to run away from.

Anyone could be taken down by the proper shot aimed from a very long distance. There was no defense against that.

Strickler picked up the phone and dialed Uncle Tommy.

"You should see this kid's history, Tommy. I'm telling you, a sniper rifle is the only way. That, or a team. You got ten guys you can send me?"

"I don't know that area well, Harry. I've only got one name, Caleb. No one else sells the kind of thing you're looking for. It's all hand guns and assault rifles. But this guy, there's rumors he's a snitch."

Strickler grinned, a shark moving toward the scent of blood. Now that his research was done and he had a plan, he was impatient to act. "I'll take my chances."

00

 **NOTE: Well, what do you think? Let me know in the reviews!**


	10. Deputy Mann's Dirty Secret

**I have edited the previous chapter, but all of the important plot points remain the same. I cleaned up some grammar and changed some of the character development aspect, if you want to re-read it.**

Chapter 10: Stranger

Police, park rangers, county sheriff, state patrol, Dean had encountered them all over the years. No matter the color of the uniform or the name on the tag, they all operated the same way. There was a set of rules of conduct that they were either born with, or had downloaded into their brains when they donned the uniform. Dean knew exactly how to generate a cooperative response, and exactly how to get under their skin.

He often chose the latter, as it always yielded entertaining results. Besides, during his typical encounters with law enforcement, cooperation wasn't going to be a realistic option anyway. So he might as well have fun in the process.

Dean entered the Sheriff's offices with a grin on his face. He'd been hiding behind binoculars for a week, keeping track of Sammy and watching for danger in the shadows. He'd seen Sam eat more green food than Dean had ever seen on one plate before. He'd witnessed awkward fighting lessons that had resulting in more than one busted lamp. He'd licked his lips hungrily during family dinners with the girlfriend's mom and dad (who also happened to be the local sheriff). It had been nice, for the first five minutes, to see Sammy happy.

It had been gut wrenching to see him happy with another family.

But mostly, it had just been boring. Even the sight of Sam in a giant yellow vest, directing traffic and helping families with small children safely through the crosswalk on parade day, funny as it had been, didn't make a dent. Dean needed something to do. He needed someone to talk to. He needed action.

So when Caleb had failed to show up after his shift on stakeout, and a call had come in an hour later, Dean was far from disappointed. Sure, it had been sloppy of Caleb to get caught at the shack where they were squatting. Dad would have come down hard on Dean, if it had happened to him. Yet Dean just grinned.

Finally, something was happening. After a week of hiding in the shadows and parking around the corner, he had to come out in the open. He had to bail Caleb out, and that meant he had to go into the Sheriff's offices. He was going to see Sammy.

Dean should have been annoyed that Caleb blew their cover, but he couldn't stop grinning.

His eyes swept over the Sheriff's station, taking in the deputies in brown uniforms and office staff in business casual dress. He was looking for tall, skinny, and shaggy hair. Where was he?

"Can I help you, sir?" The receptionist at the front desk asked politely. She was in her forties and dressed conservatively.

Dean's grin broadened and he unrolled the magazine in his hand. "I'd like to talk to Deputy Mann." Dean pointed to the mailing address, perched in the corner of the cover just below a picture of a naked woman artfully posed. Dean had spent time examining the magazine in detail before coming to relinquish the evidence. "I want to compliment him on his porn palace. And I wanted to ask why he won't share?"

The receptionist's mouth hung open for a full minute of silence as her face grew progressively more red. Dean waited, friendly smile fixed on his face, eyes twinkling. People did the most interesting things when you made them uncomfortable.

"I think perhaps I should call the Sheriff." The receptionist reached for her phone and pressed the page button. "You'll want to see this, Sheriff Moore."

A thin man with graying hair strolled through the office to stand behind the receptionist. Dean had seen him many times this week, but he kept that little bit of information to himself. Instead, he held out his hand for a shake. "Sheriff! Just the man I was looking for. I'm Dean Gillan. I'm here for my buddy Caleb. Your Deputy arrested him this morning. But, last I checked, looking at porn wasn't illegal. How do I get a job here? I mean, if this is what you let your guys do on their breaks, sign me up!" Dean held up the magazine.

Sheriff Moore took it and examined the address label. His lips thinned. "Most interesting. I shall have a word with my deputy."

"How about an even trade?" Dean tapped the magazine cover. "Let Caleb go, we'll show you the rest of the Deputy's collection."

Sheriff Moore pinched the bridge of his nose. "That won't be necessary, I will investigate the property in question myself. Your friend was caught trespassing. I can let him off with a warning. Don't let it happen again."

"Yes, sir!" Dean dazzled the Sheriff with his best you-can-trust-me grin. "Won't happen again. We'll be on our way out of town as soon as you let him out. But…where's the kid I saw in the paper. What was his name?"

"Sam Winchester?"

"Yeah! The guy who killed the FBI's most wanted. I wanted to get his autograph." Dean reached into his pocket for a pen.

"He's not here. He left early today. I'm sure he doesn't want to sign autographs."

Always a spoil sport, huh Sammy? Dean's grin faded. "Oh, alright then. Give my regards to Deputy Mann!"

By the time Caleb was processed and released, the entire office was buzzing with the news and the magazine had changed hands several times. Dean sat back and watched the show, sipping on some complimentary coffee while he waited.

"You enjoy that far too much." Caleb didn't look any worse for the wear.

"Yeah." Dean laughed and led the way out of the office. "But I'll bet we won't be bothered by that deputy anymore."

Caleb just shook his head and put his phone to his hear to listen to his messages. His eyes narrowed, then a wide grin spread across his face.

"What?"

Caleb rarely showed all of his teeth, and when he did, it was an occasion for concern. Something was going to die. Except, there wasn't a hunt in town.

"I've got a new customer. A gentleman on his way to Lake County and in need of a sniper rifle."

Dean's ears quivered. "Guy got a name?"

"Strickler. Harold Strickler."

Dean laughed and clapped his hands. "He wants to shoot my brother with a sniper rifle, does he? Oh no, we got you now." He slid into the driver's seat and started the Impala, her familiar rumbling ringing in his ears like a Hallelujah chorus. "This is almost too easy."

000

"Sir, I've got a concern…"

Sheriff Moore wished that he could clap his hands over his ears and bury his face in a pillow. It was Friday afternoon. The sun was high and hot. The week had been long and exhausting. All he wanted to do was go home and collapse in bed. But there was a stack of pornography in front of him, a Deputy to put on suspension, and an office buzzing with gossip.

He looked up at Deputy Farrell. "I'm a little busy, Deputy, can it wait? If this is about Deputy Mann-"

"No, sir. It's about that prisoner you just let go. The fellow who was squatting in the shack and found that." She gestured at the magazines on the Sheriff's desk.

Sheriff Moore cocked his head. "I'm listening."

"Well, sir, I checked the video monitors in the cell. You know I took a lip reading class."

Sheriff Moore nodded. Deputy Farrell was one of his most skilled people. She always jumped at a chance to learn new skills. Either she though she had something to prove, being the only woman in a boy's club, or else she was just that dedicated. He thought his was the former, but there was no telling.

"He called in the other man, the one who bailed him out, Dean. I'm fairly certain he was talking about Sam Winchester when they were on the phone. Like they were watching him." The Deputy paused. Sheriff Moore made an encouraging gesture with his hands. "I've seen that man, Dean. He's been skulking around town with binoculars all week, watching Sam. I thought you should know."

Odd. Too many small odd things adding up to something. What it was, the Sheriff didn't know yet.

"Did you see what the prisoner and Sam talked about, when they had lunch?"

Farrell shook her head. "No, sir. But I can check the tape. I think Sam's back was to the camera, but I can get half of the conversation."

Sheriff Moore nodded. "You do that. Today."

Sam had killed a very dangerous man, who was a member of a very dangerous family. A family who might be interested in revenge. Sam might know how to fight, but that didn't say anything about his ability to spot a criminal or know if someone was trying to manipulate him. If that prisoner was looking for a way to get close to Sam, to find out who he cared about…

Sheriff Moore pressed his lips together. There was nothing he could do about it now. Sam and Jessica were on their way out of town, heading up to the family's cabin by the lake for a cozy weekend together. They would be out of sight, and out of cell phone range, for three days. That should give him enough time to look into the identities of the two strangers.

He just hoped Sam and Jess had hit the road before Dean left the jail with Caleb. They should be long gone, with their mysterious stalker unable to follow or find them until Monday.

He went back to the suspension paperwork in front of him, but didn't get more than two lines done before the phone rang. A familiar voice assaulted his ear.

"Sheriff, the FBI is on the way back to Lakeport."

Well, there goes my weekend. Sheriff Moore sighed. He didn't have enough energy left to be stressed. "May I ask why, Agent Henricksen? I thought you were on suspension."

"This case isn't closed, and I'm the best expert you have on the Strickler family."

Family. Damn, he'd been right. Sheriff Moore pushed the suspension paperwork and porn magazines aside. "How many and how close are they?"

"One man, Eugene Stricker's brother, Harold. They were trained together. He's just as dangerous as his brother. We don't know if the rest of the family is involved."

Sheriff Moore froze. "There was a prisoner in my jail today, he was caught squatting at an old shack. He was talking about Sam to his friend. Caleb Phillips. Dean Gillan." The Sheriff rattled off the rest of their personal information from the computer screen.

"Got it. I'll look them up and see if they're connected to this. You keep Winchester there, Sheriff. Don't let him go home. We're about three hours out, we'll be there soon."

Henricksen hung up before Sheriff Moore could say another word. He slapped the button to clear the line and dialed Jessica's number, hoping that they hadn't driven out of range yet. There was no cell phone service at the lake house.

000

Strickler closed the phone and contemplated the screen. _Caleb_. He'd read that name in the Winchester file. He'd seen the pictures of them, crowded together in front of the camera, holding up their guns as if they were 4-H ribbons.

It didn't make much difference, really. Strickler never had any intention of purchasing the sniper rifle. He didn't have enough cash. He would have to take it by stealth, or force.

Harold had brought minimal gear with him: two guns. One was a regular hand gun loaded with standard bullets, nothing fancy. It was simple, but effective. He didn't need hollow points or exploding rounds to kill a man, a ball of lead would do fine. The other was rifle, and it carried special rounds, something he only used for the right occasion.

An occasion like this.

Strickler had two hours before the meet to prep his weapons and the site. He grinned. This was going to get interesting. He hadn't realized until this moment how much he missed the thrill of the hunt.

 _Rest easy, brother. Sam Winchester will pay. Soon_.

000

 **What do you think? What has Strickler got planned? Will Dean and Caleb be ready? What will Sheriff Moore learn when he does a little research on the two 'strangers' in town? Let me know what you liked and what you want to see more of in the reviews!**

NOTE: It was strange to write a chapter without Sam in it. I promise we will get back to him very soon. But I have to set up some plot points before we can move forward. Next chapter should be up very soon.


	11. Bean Bags

**I am having so much fun writing this story, I hope you are having fun reading it! There are now a lot of characters to juggle, and a lot of things are happening in a short amount of time. So please be patient with me, we won't see every character every chapter, but I promise all of these character arcs and story lines will tie together soon! Thanks to everyone who is leaving reviews, I am so grateful for all of your comments, you are the reason this story is still going!**

Chapter 11: Bean Bags

The air was sharp and clear, the scent of water mixed with pine needles in an intoxicating aroma that invited all to partake of the great outdoors. The small cabin was artfully decorated with rustic furniture, but equipped with all the modern amenities; refrigerator, lights, running water. But there was no air conditioning. All of the windows were flung open, and the tantalizing breeze wafting through the interior beckoned all outside.

Sam sat in an armchair made of twisted twigs and covered in a cushion the same color as the lake water out the window. He didn't see the clear blue surface glimmering invitingly, or care about the crisp air. He was deep in thought, speaking with the one man who might understand his dilemma.

Until he'd seen his dad standing there at the booking counter, he'd thought his life path so clear. But the sight of John Winchester had blurred the lines, and the conversation with Caleb had muddied everything up. Sam found himself not sure of what he wanted. There was a deep happiness here, a satisfaction like he had never felt before. But it was paired with a longing for family that was as sharp as his longing for freedom from the hunt had once been.

Sam thought the choice was all or nothing, but Caleb had pointed out a middle path.

"Well, Sam, I know that would be a world of help to a lot of hunters to have a lawyer on our side who understands what's going on." Bobby's voice was like a warm blanket transmitted through the telephone lines. It wrapped him in reassurance that no matter what he chose, Sam would still have a friend. "Is that something you want to do?"

"I don't know, Bobby. Hunters and the real world, they don't mix well, you know."

"You might consider telling that girl of yours the truth, then. She's been pretty cool about things so far."

The idea sounded so reasonable, so rational, coming from Bobby. Yet Bobby could be just as crazy as the next hunter. He blamed John for being reckless, but Sam had seen Bobby flirt with danger on more than one occasion. Hunting made a man leave behind all normal habits of self preservation, so that insane seemed normal.

"Fighting skills is still part of the normal world, Bobby. She can explain that away without having nightmares. Monsters..." Sam shook his head.

As much as he wanted to stay connected to his family, as much as he missed so many people, their connection to the world of hunting was the reason he had cut all ties. He didn't want any part of that world.

Bobby, at least, dropped everything when Sam came around. He'd allowed Sam to stay at his place on school breaks, when the dorms closed. He had put the guns away during that time, never asking Sam to help with a hunt. Sam didn't think he could trust other hunters to be so understanding. He'd get them out of jail, and then they'd try to get him to help finish the hunt. Or else whatever they were hunting might follow them home. Creatures had crashed their motel room of the month on a regular basis, following John back to his home base to try to stop the hunter. Sam remembered one monster catching John in the parking lot, and Dean driving them both miles down the road to wait in safety to see if Dad would come back or not.

Sam couldn't have that happen with Jessica, with any children they might have.

No.

Bobby seemed to hear the decision in the pause. "Yeah, probably not for the best. Anyone near a hunter is at risk. We all know that."

"Right. Well, thanks Bobby." Sam hung up the phone and turned to see Jessica standing in the doorway, hands on hips, a disapproving look on her face.

"Hey, we came up here to get away from all that." She waved her hand in the direction of the phone. Sam grinned, reached to the wall, and pulled the cord, cutting all connection with the outside world.

Jessica returned his smile and came toward him slowly, hips rolling seductively. She reached her arms around his neck, eyes dancing. "Want to go swimming?"

000

Black asphalt shone bright in the midday heat. The road shimmered with haze that blended with the tall grasses all around. The spot was barren, free of trees or buildings that might provide cover. Several miles outside of town, there was no help, and no one to hear the screams should the deal go south.

Both parties preferred it that way.

Dean leaned against the Impala, parked on the side of the road, the heat from the metal frame blistering his skin even though his jeans. Caleb's care was parked a few feet away, the sniper rifle ready in the back seat. Caleb stood at a distance, watching for their man, who should be arriving any time.

Dean was on the phone, trying to explain the Plan.

"Yeah, Dad, I think we've got it handled."

"You tell me you're helping Caleb sell a gun to the man who wants to kill Sam? Dean, sometimes your plans worry me."

"It was Caleb's plan." Dean could just imagine the retort Sam would mutter, under his breath, about Dad's plans being far more risky than anything Dean ever came up with. There was no use wishing Sam had been at work earlier today, no use wishing he'd broken cover to talk to his brother sooner, no use wishing he'd followed him that fateful night in New York three years ago.

 _Focus on the job_.

"Caleb fixed the rifle so it won't work properly. He jammed the firing mechanism, and he messed with the sights. If Strickler figures out one problem, he'll still have to deal with the other."

"So you plan to set him up?" John's voice was critical. He wouldn't like the idea of sending a man to jail, when he could just get out and try all of this again later.

John had killed men to protect Sam before, and Dean knew it. He tried to ignore that fact most days, and today was no different. There were a lot of things in his life that Dean chose not to think about too closely. That had always been Sammy's problem. He couldn't just let things be.

"Yeah, Caleb will call his contact in the FBI. We'll follow Strickler, see where he sets up, and he should get sent away for a nice long while."

"Attempted murder won't get him that long. In five years, he'll be out."

"Yeah, well, it's the best plan we've got. He's not a monster. This isn't our kind of thing."

"If you see a chance, Dean, you take him out. I don't want this man coming after Sammy again."

Dean closed his eyes. There was a line somewhere in all of this, one that he didn't want to cross. He just wasn't sure where it was. But he knew what his job was; obey Dad, take care of Sam. "Yes sir."

"I have to burn this vetala's corpse, and then I'm on my way. It'll take me three days."

Dean nodded. "Yes, sir."

He had three days to clear this up before Dad arrived to take charge.

"Caleb?"

Caleb was walking back toward the car, giving Dean a thumbs-up sign. "He's here."

Dean nodded, checked his gun, and assumed a watchdog position slightly off to the side, but with a clear line of fire. He didn't expect anything to go wrong, but there was a chance that Strickler could inspect the weapon and spot the sabotage. Dean would be ready to back Caleb up if that happened.

A blue Honda slowed as it approached their stopping point. The man in the driver's seat had a shotgun in his hand. Dean took a step back to brace himself, hand going to his gun.

The other guy was faster. He already had his gun out, his shot lined up. Before the Honda was completely stopped, Strickler fired.

Caleb grabbed his chest and collapsed to the ground.

 _Dammit_! Dean's gun was halfway out when the next round hit his own chest. Pain blossomed across his ribs, and he gasped as all of the air was shoved from his lungs. His knees buckled despite his best efforts to remain upright. Stricker jumped out of the car, shooting again. The round collided with Dean's rib cage again, and he sprawled sideways under the force of-whatever it was. There was no blood, none of the sharp, searing heat of lead piercing skin, muscle and bone. No, this pain was dull, throbbing. As if he'd been punched by the world's largest fist.

 _What the hell_?

Srtickler marched toward them as Dean and Caleb squirmed on the ground, gasping for air, trying to understand what had happened. He kicked the gun from Dean's hand and slammed his fist into Dean's face, planting his nose in the gravel. He did the same to Caleb, two efficient moves that disarmed and disabled.

Strickler paused, looming over Dean.

Dean's mouth moved, but no sound would come out yet. Strickler considered him for a moment, pointing a hand gun at his face. This one was loaded with real bullets, no doubt.

"I've seen your picture. You're the other one, Winchester's brother."

"You back off now, and you might live. You go after my brother, you are a dead man." Dean's voice was a rasping whisper.

"Your brother was dead the moment he killed mine." Strickler lowered his gun. "I am here for simple justice. A life for a life. If you pursue me or my family after that, it is your decision. But Sam Winchester will die."

"You better come back here and deal with me first!" Dean yelled. He had his breath back, finally. He could feel the oxygen flowing through his body, giving him strength. He crawled to his knees. He could fight now. But Strickler was in Caleb's car, and had the engine started. He wasn't taking one sniper rifle, he now had Caleb's entire arsenal in the trunk. The car kicked gravel as Stickler drove away. Dean choked on the fumes and the grit. "You bastard!"

Caleb struggled to his feet, blood running down his face. "He took the rifle we meant him to have."

 _Yeah, along with a few dozen grenades and other goodies_.

"Yeah, but he'll inspect it now. If he can fix it, Sammy's dead." Dean wasn't sure how his tongue formed those words. They were impossible. Something that simply could not happen while he was alive.

"He hasn't changed his number."

"Right." Dean pulled out his phone and dialed his brother. The time for hiding in the shadows was over. Sam didn't get to ignore this anymore.

Sam's voice greeted him for the first time in three years. Dean drew a breath, but exhaled with a curse. The voice was recorded, a message, voicemail. "Dammit Sam answer your phone!"

Dean closed the phone, wishing he could smash it to a thousand pieces. Wishing he could reach through the invisible waves that carried data across the world and smack his brother. Hug him. Grab him by the scruff of the neck and rush him into a safe room and lock him there forever.

A pressing pain in his chest distracted him from the happy daydream. "Ow. I think I broke a few ribs. What did that guy hit us with?"

Caleb pressed his hand helpfully against Dean's ribs, feeling the contours for cracks and sending sharp ripples of pain shooting across Dean's chest.

"Ah!"

"Oh, you're fine. Nothing broken, just bruised." Caleb cradled his own ribs gently. "What did he hit us with?"

Dean reached down and picked up a soft, pillow-like wad of red cloth from the pavement. It rattled dully when he shook it. "Bean bags. He hit us with bean bags."

000

"Bean bag round are nasty. You need to ice the spot for the next few days, you could have some bad swelling." John's voice was clipped with worry. It didn't escape him how close his eldest son had come to death. If Strickler had chosen to use real bullets...

There was a reason he had sent Dean away on his own, after he'd lost Sam. His boys had been John's entire life for twenty years. To lose Sam, even to a different lifestyle, had pushed him toward a breaking point John did not want to cross. If anything happened to Dean, John didn't know what he'd do. How he'd react. Who he would kill. He'd crossed lines before, too many times.

Pushing Dean away made the risk more manageable. Though he knew it was a lie to think it would make the pain more bearable.

He pressed the gas pedal closer to the floor, although it would buy him mere hours. Three days away was too far.

"Why didn't he kill you?"

"No idea, but he could have. I think he doesn't want a blood trail for the Feds to follow. At least, that's Caleb's guess. Apparently, these guys have some kind of professional pride about killing the target, and only the target."

If John had believed in God, he would have thanked him profusely. He was no stranger to criminal honor codes. Criminals had no more desire for social chaos and anarchy than anyone else. They just went by their own system, instead of the social majority.

"You warn Sam?"

"No, he's not answering his phone and I don't know where he is. Caleb is calling the Feds now."

"Good. Find your brother."

As if he needed to tell Dean that. John was well aware that half of what he said was simply rhetorical anymore. Dean didn't need orders, he knew the job. It just made John feel better to give them. It meant he had some semblance of control over this crazy adrenaline-filled ride that had become their lives.

It was just his luck this vetala had taken so long to catch and kill. He should have been on California days ago. But he had stayed to finish the hunt. It was a good thing there had only been one vetala. Unlike werewolves and vampires, vetalas hunted alone. Not in packs or pairs.

John drove on, eyes on the road ahead, not noticing the pair of headlights that had been trailing him since he left Georgia.

 **NOTE: Please let me know your reactions in the reviews!**

 **Next chapter, the FBI is on their way back. Also, Dean needs to find Sam, fast. Who will he turn to for help?**

 **If you would like to read more about Bobby's connection with Sam during the Stanford years, you can read my short story 'Park Bench.'**


	12. Brother

**Chapter 12: Brother**

Suburbia. Trim yards, picket fences, hanging flower baskets and tiny gnomes on the front step. The epitome of the American Dream.

Dean hated it.

He didn't know why, exactly. If Mom had never died, this would have been his life, and that was something he wished for on a daily basis. But it was a wish, not reality, and Dean knew where he belonged. He could make himself comfortable in the grimiest bar, the moldiest hotel room, the greasiest diner.

If there was a permanent layer of dirt that would never come up, or a shady deal going on in the back room, Dean was at home. White carpet and shiny hardwood floors presented a challenge he wasn't prepared for. They made him uncomfortable, so Dean bit back. He put his feet on the coffee table, and chewed with his mouth open. The nicer the place, the more his behavior devolved. He knew this from the angry scowls Sam liked to send his way.

Sammy always fit into these places as if he'd grown up there. He didn't find the nice clothes itchy or annoying, he always said 'please' and 'thank you,' and he could use those big brown eyes of his to send any housewife off to make pity cookies. Or cake. Or muffins. It was never pie. Dean didn't know why. Pie was found in diners, in cheap Mom and Pop stores, in backcountry homes. Suburbia didn't even do food right.

None of that mattered today. Today Dean had one purpose in mind and one only. Sam was not answering his phone. Sam was not at work, and he was not at home. That left one more place to look.

He pulled the Impala into the Moore's drive, ribs still aching from their encounter with the little red bean bags.

Bean bags! Dean would never be able to play that game again. At least, not until the bruises faded. He slammed the car door with a bang and marched into the Moore house. There was no time to knock, no time for nice introduction and a round of 'how are you' today. Every second he wasted was a second more Strickler had to prepare.

A woman jumped off the couch as Dean entered the living room. It was Jessica's mom, Sandy. She had a magazine in her hands, the cover filled with pictures of flowers. _Better Homes and Gardens_. The title vanished as she rolled the magazine and held it like a bat between her and the intruder. She circled to crouch behind the couch, as if it were a giant guard dog that might come to life and save her from the mad man who had just barged into her home. Her eyes flicked across the room to the phone, sitting on the coffee table.

"Who are you? What do you want? My jewels are upstairs in the bedroom. They're all yours." She flicked the magazine toward the stairs, but kept shifting her weight, ready to make a move at any time.

"I don't want to rob you." Dean stopped and held his hands out from his sides to show that he was unarmed. "I need your help. My name is Dean Winchester, and I need to find my brother Sam. He lives with your daughter, and I think he's in danger."

"Sam?" Sandy shook her head. "He said he had a brother, but-"

"Yes, that's me. Look, ma'am. I don't have much time. That man Sam killed, he had a brother. That brother just stole a trunk full of weapons and is going after Sam. I need to know where he is. Now!"

"Aaaggghhh! Get away from my mother you jerk!"

The scream was accompanied by a clatter of feet on the staircase. A petite blonde, the little sister Jenna, charged down the steps and propelled herself toward Dean, fists flying. Dean caught her before she could land a blow, and pushed her backwards into the wall. She flopped around like a fish out of water, pinned at the shoulder's. Dean's arms were longer, so she couldn't land a punch. But her feet kicked at his knees.

Whack! Something smacked the side of his face, then his shoulders. "Let go of my daughter!"

Dean held up his hands to shield his face from the magazine. "I'm not here to hurt anyone!"

He missed having Sam at his side during times like this. His brother had a way of making people feel comfortable, of making them believe he was harmless. Dean could never make that trick work for him. He was dangerous, he was a killer, and he knew it.

He would also never harm an innocent person, and that was what he needed them to know now. "I'm here to protect my brother. Please, do you know where he is?"

"You barge into my home and you expect me to believe-"

"I don't know any other way to get things done. Sam and I didn't grow up in a nice place like this. I don't have time for manners and introductions. I have to find my brother. Please."

Sandy didn't lower the magazine one millimeter. She kept it raised like a bat. Dean moved his hand slowly toward his gun. It wasn't an option that he liked, because he believed these were nice people. But he would threaten them if he had to.

Jenna paused, lowering her fists. "They're at the lake house. They don't get cell reception there, and Jessica always unplugs the phone. There's no way to contact them."

"Where is it?" Dean demanded.

"I'll draw you a map."

000

Sheriff Moore liked the FBI, in general. He was appreciative of their existence, and glad of the job they fulfilled. He understood the need for a law enforcement agency that crossed state lines, and could tackle the worst of the worst. That didn't mean he liked working with them, or enjoyed having them tromp through his territory. Agent Henricksen in particular acted as if he owned the world, and he was reckless in his use of his power. It was a dangerous combination, which had already caused harm to people Sheriff Moore considered his to protect.

The FBI pulled into the parking lot, a caravan of black sedans. Sheriff Moore straightened his shirt and waited, hands clasped. He didn't want to work with Agent Henricksen again, but he had little choice. He knew that as much damage as Henricksen could do on his own, if the Sheriff's dept worked against him, the problem would just become worse.

It was hardly Sam's fault that Eugene Strickler had chosen Lakeport has his hiding place. There was no way Sam could have known that someone would come seeking revenge. There had been no way to anticipate, or avoid, any of it. No, Sheriff Moore was not angry with Sam, though the boy shied away from him as if he constantly expected a reprimand. He was worried more than anything, and now more than ever before. Sam was a good kid, Sheriff Moore hoped he would join the family someday. He also felt responsible for Sam, who had no parents or other family worth mentioning. No matter what happened between Sam and Jessica, Sam would always be part of this family.

So Sheriff Moore bit his tongue and waited to greet Agent Henricksen, the man who might be able to save Sam's life.

Agent Henricksen ignored the Sheriff's hand, extended in greeting. "Where's Winchester?"

"He left early today, he and my daughter are on a weekend vacation at our family's cabin by the lake. They ought to be safe there, and we can have a plan ready when they return."

"Safe? Sheriff, do you understand what kind of situation we have on our hands here?"

"We have an angry man who wants revenge."

"We have a well-trained professional assassin, with all of the same skills and connections that Eugene Strickler had. He's got several hours head start on us, and all of our information on Sam Winchester."

"All of your information?"

Henricksen's shoulders twitched in annoyance. "He stole our file on the Winchesters. Everything we know, he knows."

"You have a file on Sam?"

"On his father. He's a con artist, Sheriff. Been wanted by white-collar division for decades. Here." Henricksen pushed a very thick manilla folder into the Sheriff's hands. "I made you a copy."

There had to be at least two hundred pages in the file. So. Sam had certainly been hiding something. "What about those men who were in here earlier today?"

"Dean and Caleb?"

"Yes, I have their pictures." Sheriff Moore handed over two color photos printed from stills of the security monitors. "Do you think they're connected?"

Henricksen shook his head, a grin quirking the corner of this mouth. "No, Sheriff. I don't know the younger man, though Dean is the name of Sam's brother. The older fellow, Caleb. When I ran his name, I got a whole lot of interesting things. He's an old friend of the family. Gun runner by trade, but he's never been arrested because he's also an informant for us. One of those small-time dealers we let stay on the streets, because he helps us take down the bigger fish. Here."

Henricksen grabbed the Winchester file and flipped through it until he found a collection of pictures. "He regularly sells to John Winchester, Sam's father. Taught Sam and Dean most of what they know about heavy ordinance, too."

Sheriff Moore stared at the picture in front of him. There was the man he'd arrested, looking ten years younger. He was posing with two young boys, each proudly waving a rifle as if it were a soccer trophy.

Sheriff Moore could tell which was Sam immediately; it was something about the eyes. He already had the haunted look of someone who had seen too much. He couldn't be more than ten in the picture. Both boys wore patched, faded clothes. Sam's were too large for him, as if he was wearing his brother's hand-me-downs.

It was a window into a different world, one Sheriff Moore knew he could never hope to understand. One Sam clearly wanted no one to know about.

The file was heavy in his hand. What other secrets did it contain? A question for another day.

"How do you suggest we proceed?" Sheriff Moore asked, setting the file aside.

"I suggest we put Sam, and your entire family, in protective custody immediately. He and your daughter might be at some remote location-"

"Is there a way we can keep an eye on them without ruining their weekend?"

Henricksen rocked back on his heels, unaccustomed to being interrupted. "We don't know who's after Sam, how many there are or what else they might know. This isn't a time to lurk in the bushes, Sheriff."

"I don't want to scare my daughter."

Henricksen's chest puffed, his shoulders rising as he prepared a retort. Agent Morris ran up, a phone in his hand.

"We don't have a choice. I just got word from ATF. A gun runner, Caleb, contacted him. He just had his entire load stolen by Stricker. Sniper rifle, grenades, some nasty stuff. We have to find Winchester and get him to a safe house now."

So. There was nothing to argue over anymore, nothing to think about. Sheriff Moore gestured to the doors. "Alright. Let's go. I'll lead the way."

000

 **NOTE:** What do you think? Please let me know in the reviews.


	13. A shot in the dark

**Chapter 13: A shot in the dark**

The sounds of frogs filled the air, a shrill chorus to usher in the evening. Soft music flowed from the speakers of the Bose sound system, filling the cabin with an earthy tranquility. Sam held Jessica in his arms, and they swayed together in time to the music. They had swum, they had played in the sand and hiked the local trails. Sam felt as if this moment should last for forever. The populated world seemed a thousand miles away, and this moment, this embrace, the only thing that mattered. Monsters, men, and all of the concerns that came with them had been all but forgotten.

Jessica laid her head on his chest, blonde hair spilling soft as silk over his arm. "I think I'm getting hungry."

The moment could not be eternal. The call of necessary bodily functions could not be ignored.

"I guess that means I have to cook." Jessica sighed and raised on tiptoe to kiss him.

Sam laughed. "The abandoned cabin in the woods was your idea. No phones, no TV, and no restaurants."

"You behave." She ducked under his arm, slapping his rear on her way to the kitchen.

The air was growing chilly. While that would make for a lovely cuddle session later, he didn't want to be cold now. Sam went round the house, closing windows. The sound of frogs dwindled.

Light flickered in the corner of his eye. Sam paused, and stared out the window. Moonlight was reflecting off of the lake, making a shinning silver pool in the middle of the deep midnight blue. But there was another flash of light, high on the hill, also reflecting the moon.

There was no house up there, no road for cars. Nothing but trees.

Trees don't reflect moonlight.

Sam grabbed the binoculars Sandy kept for bird watching and tried to find the light again. He knew they were safe, knew that no one was near, knew there was nothing to hide from or fear. Yet he'd been too well trained. Something that out of place had to be investigated.

He made out a long, thin shape; a tube sticking out of a pile of brush. There was a whisper of movement.

Sam collapsed to the floor. The window above him shattered. Glass rained down on his head.

"Sam? Jessica walked into the room, and gaped at the glass. "What happened?"

"Jess, get down!" Sam pushed himself off the floor, caught Jessica in his arms, and pulled her down. She yelped and went rigid underneath him. The glass exploded again; now the window was entirely gone.

"Sam, what is happening?" Jessica wriggled underneath him.

"Stay still," Sam snapped, and Jessica froze. "Sniper rifle. Someone is shooting at us. Stay down." Sam slowly levered himself up, but Jessica caught his shirt.

"You too! Where are you going?"

"For the phone." Sam pulled her hands away, tucked into a ball, and rolled across the room. He slithered on knees and elbows and jammed the phone cord back into the jack in the wall.

There was a thud and a clatter as something small landed on the hardwood floor. A small green ball rested there. Grenade.

Jessica shrieked an rolled toward the kitchen, wisely not getting up off of the floor. Sam dived toward the grenade, snatched it up, and threw it back out the window.

BOOM!

Flames filled the night and dirt showered them through the open window.

 _I wish Sheriff Moore hunted, even if it was just rabbits_! Sam searched the room for anything he could use as a weapon, but there was no hunting rifle, no handgun, nothing. Salt wouldn't help in this instance. There, behind Jessica, was a kitchen full of pans and knives. It was the best he hand.

Staying crouched below window level, Sam scrambled to the kitchen and grabbed a boning knife in one hand and a skillet in the other.

"Sam!" Jessica reached for him as he scrambled past her again. He motioned for her to stay down.

"I'm going to find out what's happening. Stay here." Sam reached for the phone and placed it in Jessica's hands. "Call for help. You should be safe if you stay right here."

"You'll be safer here too!" Jessica hissed.

Sam shook his head. "I have to figure out what's happening."

 _What is happening_? This didn't make any sense. This wasn't monsters, and who would want to shoot up the Moore's lake house? Sam wanted answers, and he wanted to take action. Dad and Dean had spent years protecting him, tucking him away safely in the corner, not telling him the truth. As much as he hated hunting, he hated being in the dark more. No, he would not hide in the corner and wait for help. He would face this head on.

A familiar sound echoed through the night, the rumbling of an old car engine and the sound of Metallica blaring out of the speakers. _Dean_.

The music died with the engine. Sam hit the doorway just as Dean was getting out of the car. He took in the broken windows and swath of destruction from the grenade at a glance. He pointed firmly at the house.

"Sammy, stay in and keep her down!"

Sam spun around to see Jessica behind him, eyes wide but determined. "Sam!"

Light and sound exploded around them. _Flash-bangs_! Jessica shrieked and clapped her hands over her ears. Sam pushed Jess to the wall and put his back to her, facing outward with pan and knife ready. He could barely see Dean's form, a shadowed silhouette in the sudden flare of light. He had a gun in each hand and charged into the night with a roar.

Sam didn't know how long he stood there, ears ringing, spots dancing in front of his eyes. He kept the knife raised and ready, the pot held against his forearm like a shield.

Gunshots rang in the distance, and there was a shout.

A keening wail echoed in the distance, and then blue and white lights were flashing everywhere. Sirens. Cop cars.

Car doors thudded and boots crunched on the gravel drive. Sam kept the knife raised, ready to tackle whatever came through the open doorway.

000

Knuckles white on the steering wheel, Sheriff Brian Moore drove faster than he had ever driven before. Tires skidded on the gravel road, and the rear of his car began to fish-tail. Sheriff Moore pulled back on the accelerator to steady his ride.

He had rushed to crime scenes many times before. He had been in law enforcement for over twenty years, and he thought he had seen it all. Nothing unsettled him anymore. People engaged in relatively few crimes, most incidents could be placed in one of three categories, and dealt with accordingly. Lakeport was a small, sleepy town, but it had seen its share of murder, and accidents. Sheriff Moore was no stranger to blood, or to danger.

The blood of a stranger. Never before had he feared for the life of his own.

It was not a feeling he liked. Some part of his brain knew that this was a liability, that he should take himself off of this case and let his second-in-command coordinate with the FBI. That, like the giant file Agent Henricksen had handed him, was a thought for another day. Right now, in this moment, everyone needed to get to the Moore's vacation cabin as quickly as possible. Which meant Sheriff Moore had to lead the way.

A few cars skidded on the same curve which had sent the Sheriff's car fish-tailing, but no one fell off the road.

His headlights illuminated a strange scene. For a moment, Brian wondered if he had the wrong house. It didn't look like his home at all. The door was angled off the hinges. Dirt and shattered glass lay scattered across the ground like confetti. Two figures ran through the headlights and vanished into the darkness.

Gunshot rang out, and there was a shout.

Sheriff Moore bolted from his car and dashed into the house. "Jessica!"

"Dad!" Her voice sounded frightened, but not pained. Brian had learned to tell the difference long ago, when the girls were little.

Sam stood with his back to a corner, far from any windows or doors, a knife in one hand and a skillet in the other. There was a wild look in his eyes, and Sheriff Moore didn't dare step too close yet. He was sure if Sam recognized the difference between fried and foe just yet. He was breathing heavily, clearly operating on pure adrenaline.

Jessica ducked out from behind Sam and ran into her father's arms. He wrapped her up tight, reassured by her warm presence. "Are you ok?"

She nodded. "Yes. I guess." She clasped her wrist and frowned. "I think I sprained something when Sam pushed me."

"He pushed you?"

"Yes, because someone was shooting at us through the window." There was a shrill edge to her voice. "Daddy, someone was shooting as us!"

"Easy, Jess, it's ok. Whoever it was, they're gone now. Sam?" Sheriff Moore stepped around his daughter to approach her boyfriend. He had lowered the knife and pot slightly, and had started to shake. "Sam, are you ok?"

Sam nodded, but his eyes flicked in all directions, still searching for danger.

Brian stepped back to allow the paramedics through. One checked Jessica's wrist, and pronounced nothing broken. The other draped a blanket around Sam's shoulders and murmured, "I think he's suffering from shock. Warm him up, calm him down, and he'll be fine."

"Daddy, he picked up a grenade. A grenade! He picked it up off the floor and threw it out the window."

"He saved your life." Brian pointed out the most comforting aspect of this revelation. Sam had been around grenades enough to know exactly how much time he had to pick one up and throw it back at his assailant. He had protected himself and Jessica in a situation that Sheriff Moore knew he himself would have difficulty dealing with.

Yet the boy was shaking with shock. Curious.

"Why would someone do that, Daddy? They blew up our house."

"Let's get you two home, and I'll explain."

Sheriff Moore gestured to the door. Jessica wrapped her arm around Sam's waist and guided him toward the car. Sam paused on the doorstep, eyes searching the darkness.

"Dean?" The word was soft, whispered.

"Sam, we're going home." Jessica tugged at his shirt, but Sam shook his head and refused to move.

"Dean." His voice was stronger now. His eyes focused on a figure emerging from the darkness.

It was the man who had so memorably brought evidence of Deputy Mann's indiscretion to the office mere hours ago. He had a gun in his hand and a grim look on his bloodied face. He shook his head and said, "He got away."

Sam slumped, and allowed himself to be led to the Sheriff's car. Dean looked as if he wanted to follow. His eyes met Sheriff Moore's for a moment, fierce and protective.

The message was clear.

 _You take good care of my brother. Or else_.

Who were the Winchesters? It seemed Brian Moore was about to find out.

 **NOTE** : Action scenes are not my forte and are one thing I am trying to improve. And suggestions are welcome. Please let me know what you think in the reviews!


	14. Safe

**Note:** Sorry this update took a little longer. Life got a little crazy last week. Hopefully I will have more for you soon.

Thank you so much to everyone who posts reviews! I love hearing from each of you!

 **Chapter 14: Safe**

Fragments of memory filtered through the haze of fear ran through Sam's dreams, their jagged edges cutting his sleep like a knife.

It's ok, Sam. You're safe now. Sheriff Moore's voice was smooth, like the surface of the lake, until it erupted in blood. Red spattered like corn syrup in a bad horror movie across the lens of his dream.

Colors shifted and spiraled behind his closed eyes, to form into a wall of glass. He stood barefoot before a giant window, bathed in a cool breeze and the caress of Jessica's hair on his shoulders. Then the glass cracked, a spider web of lines crisscrossing across the surface until, with a deafening bang, everything shattered. Sam ducked and covered his head with his hands, sharp rain stinging his bare skin.

Safe. The idea had felt real for the first time in Sam's entire life. It wrapped around him and settled into every pore, allowing him to relax, allowing him to forget the words John Winchester had whispered in the dark of night.

There is no safe place in this world, son. There are monsters lurking around every corner, death behind every door. You always have to be on guard.

It had been an accurate description of the hunting life, but Sam had never accepted that truth extended everywhere. Somehow, Sam had thought that if he left that world, it would leave him alone. If he joined the normal world, he would be as safe as anyone else.

Safety had betrayed him, shattered as easily as glass.

Sam had been in far worse situations before. He hadn't felt the cold, shaky, sick fear of shock since he'd been a child. He had faced death in the face before he had turned 16. He had burned bones, killed werewolves, faced down evil spirits, and countless other things that would make most people run away screaming.

But never had he been in attacked in a place where he felt utterly safe. Where he'd let his guard down completely.

A soft yelp echoed across his dreams. Jess was lying in a pool of blood, curled around her arm, looking up at him with pain-filled eyes. She was hurt. She could be hurt. She could be taken from him at any moment by violence he could not foresee or predict.

The dream shifted, and Jessica was cradled in her fathers arms. She looked warm and content, fearless.

Sam could hardly remember the last time he'd felt that kind of reassurance from another person. It had been many, many years ago. He'd seen Dad get hurt, thrown across the room, shot full of shrapnel, or nearly bitten too many times to feel safe in his father's presence anymore. Only one thing could still make him feel safe. His brother.

Dean. Did I imagine it?

Faces paraded through the darkness, images of a world Sam hadn't thought of for years. Caleb, narrow and pointed features, dirty blonde hair, skin rough from spending too much time in the sun. Bobby, gruff and scruffy, looking like a teddy bear but with a firm hand on his gun and a sharp eye. Pastor Jim, calm and serene at all times, his preacher's collar tight around his neck and his fist tight around his knife. All soaked in the scent of whiskey and blood, a scent that only grew stronger as the scene shifted.

Bodies lay draped over benches, propped against light poles, tossed across the sidewalk like dolls littering a child's bedroom floor. Only this was downtown Lakeport, and the gutters were filled with blood. John Winchester strode through, heedless of where he stepped, taller than the buildings which shrank before him to the size of a model train set. He stood, boots soaked in the carnage, a gun slung over one shoulder, and fixed his eyes on Sam with the same look he used when Sam forgot to do his chores.

You can never be safe.

A hand landed on his shoulder, the firm grip warm and familiar. Sam turned to see a wide grin, and suddenly all the fear melted.

Dean.

My brother is here.

For the moment, that was all Sam needed.

Then the image dissolved. Sam's eyes opened and his brother was gone. He was surrounded by cool sheets, Jessica's warm body under his arm, streetlight glowing out the window. Everything was just as is should be, in this new life he had chosen.

No hunting. No father. No brother.

000

"Dean."

Jessica woke to the sound of a soft whisper, and looked up as movement shifted the mattress underneath her. She rolled and saw Sam sitting up, breathing heavily, staring at the darkness. Jessica curled up against his back, placing a hand on his shoulder. "Baby, are you ok? Sam?"

He had surprised them all with his numbed reaction to the attack, zoned out like a zombie for the entire drive back and only halfway revived by a cup of mom's tea. He'd hadn't said more than ten words before they crawled into the spare bed at her parent's house. He'd been so calm after killing Stricker, as if nothing unusual had happened, but now-if he didn't start coming around tomorrow, Jessica was taking him to a counselor.

His breath slowed and steadied. "Yeah, just a bad dream."

At least he was talking now. She waited, but he didn't elaborate. Odd. Usually, when something was bothering him, he didn't shut up about it. She'd never seen him this quiet about anything, except the few times she'd brought up his family.

The more important the topic, the less Sam said about it.

Jessica rubbed his back. "Sam? Talk to me. Please."

Sam's hand landed on her other wrist, wrapped in an ace bandage and already swollen and stiff. "I did this."

"It was an accident."

"I'm the reason we were attacked. Violence. Death. It's everywhere. Like it follows me. No matter what I do, it always finds me again."

There it was again, the yawing black hole that was Sam's past, a darkness she couldn't see into and couldn't begin to comprehend. "You're safe now, Sam. I'm safe. We're all safe."

He shook his head, tears glimmering in his eyes. "I can never be safe."

He shrugged her hands away and slid out of the bed. She called after him, but he slipped out the bedroom door as if he hadn't heard. The latch closed with a soft click that put more distance between them than if they were on opposite sides of the Grand Canyon.

Well, that won't do. Jessica threw off the covers and followed him quietly down the stairs.

000

It was the dog watch of the night. Dean always had a hard time staying awake through this part. That space of time between 2 and 4 am when even the late night partiers were headed home and the early risers hadn't woken yet. It was the quietest time, the darkest time, the most haunted time of the day.

Dean rubbed his face and blinked his eyes furiously. The street lights, which hard all started to run together in a swirling pattern, solidified again. Caleb should be along soon to relieve him, so that he could get at least four hours in before morning. Dean checked his watch. He had a good forty-five minutes left.

A glance across the road told him the poor FBI schmuck who had been stuck with the overnight shift was no better off than he. He was playing with his flashlight, swirling it around and making shadow patterns with his hand.

Well, there was no sense suffering alone. Even the radio was nothing but static at this hour.

The FBI agent jumped, his flashlight falling to the floor, when Dean tapped on the window to his vehicle. Dean grinned and waved, flashing his best you-can-trust-me-I'm-friendly face. The FBI agent rolled down the window. His suit was rumpled and his eyes were red-rimmed. Nearly as young as Dean, he was clearly the new guy and not used to this kind of long-night duty.

"Can I help you?"

Dean held up a bag of donuts and a thermos of coffee. "I thought you might need a snack."

The agent practically drooled. Dean was very familiar with the sudden hunger that came from staying up this late, a gnawing in the pit of your stomach that demanded energy in some form, if sleep was not forthcoming. Caffeine always helped, too.

Judging from the wrappers littering the back seat, the agent had consumed his snacks hours ago.

"Who are you?" he asked suspiciously.

"Dean Gillan, I live just down the road there." Dean pointed to the home the Impala was parked in front of. He had no idea who lived there, but he was willing to be the FBI agent didn't, either. "I wanted to say thank you for keeping an eye on my friends."

The agent brightened and stepped out of the car. "That's very kind of you sir, thanks."

Dean grinned. "No problem. So, you're really an FBI agent?"

A little ego stroking was never a bad idea. Law enforcement usually lapped it up. This agent was no different. His shoulders rose, his chest puffed, though the effect was not helped by the powdered sugar now smeared across his fingers and lips. "That I am."

Dean put on his best wide-eyed small-town-boy expression. "Wow. Can I see your badge?"

Dean knew the feds had updated recently, a coroner had nearly had him arrested last month because his fakes didn't match the new regs.

An itch wormed its way through the back of his thoughts. Like a stray movement caught out of the corner of his eye, only he hadn't seen anything unusual, he felt it. He hadn't had that kind of feeling in a long time. It was like a sixth sense, but it only worked when Sam was around.

He glanced up at the Moore house. A light was on in the kitchen. Sam's messy mop of hair visible through the open window, illuminated by the light from the open refrigerator.

I'll bet he's looking for a beer. This was grape country, and in his long week of watching the family, Dean had only ever seen wine offered in the Moore home.

Dean handed the badge back to the FBI agent. "Thanks, man. You have a good night. I'm gonna go check on my buddy." He nodded at the house, then went back to the Impala to fetch the good stuff.

Sam didn't jump, the way the FBI agent had, when Dean tapped on the kitchen window. No, he froze, every muscle ready, and turned slowly, hands poised for a fight. Dean grinned and held up a beer bottle, then pointed to the door. Sam vanished, and a moment later the door opened. Sam stood there, framed in the light, staring down at his big brother.

He has gotten taller. At least two inches. When Sam had left, Dean could still look his straight in the eye. Now he had to look up. What else has changed?

"Dean." There was a paragraph of emotion packed into the one word. If this was a chick flick, he'd be crying tears of relief and spewing dialogue about missing his brother and being so glad to see him. But this was real life, and they were Winchesters. That meant a firm hug and a lot of blinking instead of tears.

"Hiya, Sammy." Dean slapped a beer into Sam's hand and pushed through the open door.

"Uh, no shoes allowed in the house, Dean."

"Really? Huh." Dean shook his head, and made no move to take off his shoes as he strolled across the white carpet and settled on a kitchen chair.

Sam pursed his lips in his best bitch-face, and followed. "What are you doing here?"

Dean reached out with the bottle opener to pop the top of Sam's beer, then his own. "I'm here to see my brother. You ok?"

Sam settled into a chair. Behind him, Dean saw a slight movement. There was a female lurking in the shadows. Mom, sister or girlfriend? He couldn't tell in the darkness. It didn't matter. Dean didn't have anything to hide.

"I'm fine."

Sam had used that same tone to lie since he turned four. It hadn't fooled Dean then, and it wouldn't food him now. "Uh-huh. That's why you're up at 2 am."

Sam shrugged. "I couldn't sleep. I'm not hurt."

"Yeah, but that don't mean you're fine."

Sam looked away and flicked the bottle cap toward the trash.

Classic. Maybe he hadn't changed much after all. "Alright, don't tell me." Dean drank his beer, allowing the silence to settle, waiting for Sam to break it.

"It's like hunting all over again, only this time, it's just a man."

So. Dean knew he was on shaky ground here. There was a piece of his brother that he would never understand. Dean had seen the anger, brewing under the surface, a hatred for life as the Winchesters knew it. Dean had seen the fear, when his brother twitched in the throes of a bad dream. He knew Sam didn't like the hunting life, but he couldn't see why.

Dean loved life, and hunting was just part of life. Therefore, Dean loved hunting, too. Why wouldn't Sam? He had never understood. To reject hunting was to reject life.

Something was wired different in Sam, Dean had always known it. That was why his job was so important. Protect Sam.

"We've taken down men before. We can do it again. Caleb's here, Dad's on his way. He'd better hope the FBI catch him before Dad gets here!"

Sam shook his head. "It's not that. I know we'll get him. Eventually."

That was always the problem, wasn't it? No matter how hard they worked, how fast they researched, someone always died. They had never, ever worked a hunt where no one died. Hunting took time, and the more time passed, the more people died. They could never save everyone.

"I just want to be safe." The choked tone of Sam's voice made Dean wish he had something, anything, to punch. Instead, he drank more beer.

"Nothing is going to get to you before coming through me, Sam. You've got an army out there. We can ask for help on this one, from the Feds even. Ha!" Dean shook his head, grinning. A small smile quirked at the edge of Sam's lips in response.

Dean paused, daring to let hope bubble up inside. Maybe it was the beer, he didn't know. "Look, come with me."

There was a rustle of movement out of the corner of his eye. Dean looked up. The listener lurking in the doorway had stepped forward. It was the girlfriend, Jessica, wearing her mother's white nightgown and her mouth open wide to protest. The mom nightgown did nothing to decrease her hottness. Too bad she was off limits. Dean shook his head and glared, pinning her to the floor with his eyes. She glared back, but didn't move or speak.

Dean continued, "There's a hunt out in Idaho, not too far from here. We'll gank a ghoul and by the time we're done, Dad will have caught this guy."

Sam's face became closed and he glared at his brother. "I'm not hunting, Dean. I'm done with that."

"Sam-"

"No."

"This is the safest plan, Sam. We get you out of here, Strickler can't find you and this family stays safe."

"What if he comes after them anyway? What if he kidnaps Jess or her family and uses them to draw me out?"

I stuff you in the trunk and drive to Maine. "They have the FBI watching out for them."

Sam didn't reply, just gave Dean a look that clearly said, Really? After spending twenty years running from, stealing from, and outsmarting law enforcement, neither Sam nor Dean could trust them to protect anyone. They had their uses and usually performed their job well, but when it came to the truly nasty stuff, more often than not, they were out of their depth.

Winchesters specialized in nasty. Sam's presence near the Moores, which meant Dean and Caleb also protecting the Moores, was safer for the entire family.

Just not for Sam.

Dean tried to drink more beer, but found himself sucking air. The bottle was empty. He glared at the amber-colored glass, as if betrayed. "You're safest at home, Sam. With me, in the Impala, on the road."

Sam's face was set. Dean knew that stubborn look well. It had first manifested when Sam was two, and learned how to say 'No.' It had shown up at age five when he demanded to pick out his own clothes, instead of wearing whatever Dad bought. It returned when he was eight and insisted on trying out for the soccer team. Dean saw it every time he tried to get Sam to go out and play before he'd finished his homework, or insisted that he have vegetables with dinner. He had last seen it the night Sam left for Stanford.

Anything else Dean might have to say would just be a waste of breath.

Dean rolled the beer bottle between his fingers, considering. Sam didn't have to agree to this. Dean was the big brother, Dean was the one who decided what happened with Sam.

It would be easy to smash the bottle over Sam's head. He'd wake up in the Impala twenty miles outside of town with a nasty headache. No, concussions were bad.

Sam wasn't expecting a fight, Dean was pretty sure he could wrestle Sam down long enough to get him out to the Impala. He'd have to break the locks so Sam couldn't get out, of course. Then were was the small matter of the FBI agent on stakeout, refreshed now with coffee and sugar. The friendly neighbor cover-story wouldn't hold up when he started dragging Sam kicking and screaming across the lawn. He could picture the scene, the lights in the neighbor's houses flicking on, people stumbling out with bed-hair and rumpled PJs to point and stare.

Could he take the FBI agent and Sam at the same time? Probably. Maybe. Ok, so probably not. Besides, someone would be sure to get the make, model and plates for his car and he'd be caught before he crossed the state line.

"You really want to play a waiting game here, Sam?"

"I'm not leaving, Dean. Do you have a better plan?"

I'll make one. "You call me if you change your mind. You call me if anything out of place happens. You got it?"

Sam nodded. He still had his stubborn face on, but he wouldn't agree if he didn't mean it. Three years was a tiny speck of time compared to the 19 they'd spent on the road together. Dean knew Sam, knew him better than Sam knew himself, probably. Sam would call, if he felt he needed help.

"Good." Dean glanced up at Jessica, still lurking in the doorway. He winked, and walked back out into the night. Behind him, he could hear Sam grumbling about cleaning up the muddy footprints.

Dean threw a friendly wave at the FBI agent as he passed, but his thoughts were grim. Sammy had never been a patient person, and he'd always been more reckless on the job than necessary. He was good at killing, and equally as good at getting himself into trouble. It was only a matter of time before Sam did something really stupid.

And Dean couldn't do a damn thing about it but watch and wait.

 **Note:** Will Dean actually be able to sit back and stay out of Sam's life? What will Sam do now that he knows Dean is nearby? Sheriff Moore is about to get time to read the Winchester file, and the FBI have a plan that Sam isn't going to like much better than Dean's.

Please review!


	15. Fight or Flight

Thanks so much to everyone to reviewed the last chapter. I love hearing from you! Sam and Jessica have some tough choices to make this chapter. Let me know what you think!

 **Chapter 15: Fight or Flight**

Harold Strickler was licking his wounds. He was using iodine, cotton swabs and alcohol to do it, but the metaphor remained accurate. He'd been beat, beaten by a man who he'd laid flat with a bean bag round.

To be fair, the entire operation had gone sideways long before big brother had shown up at the scene. He'd had a nice shot lined up, a clear night with an open window well-lit. Of course, he hadn't taken the shot. Not with the pretty blonde girl there. He was out for revenge for his brother, and the girl was innocent. Strickler prided himself on limiting collateral damage. Hit the target, and the target only.

Then, he'd had another shot at Winchester, alone and staring straight out the window. Yet somehow, it had missed. At the last moment, the young man had ducked. It was hard to spot a sniper rifle, harder still to escape the bullet. Winchester had done both.

So Strickler had moved in and the little girl's safety no longer mattered. The grenade had nearly taken him down, he had debris across his left hip from the dive he'd taken away from the explosion.

Then, big brother had shown up out of nowhere. He should have been lying flat on a motel bed somewhere clutching his aching ribs, but he'd moved as if nothing at all had happened. The deep gash in Stricker's right arm was from the gun big brother had carried. It was loaded, oddly, with iron instead of lead.

Strickler had come prepared. He always did, mother had drilled safety into her boys from childhood. There was always a medical grade first aid kit in the trunk, not dental floss and whiskey for him. He had codine, which would give him a good night's sleep, he had iodine and alcohol to prevent infection, and sterile needles and surgical sutures.

It was always tricky cleaning and stitching one's own body. The angle was off, and sometimes it was hard to see. Strickler was glad he'd gotten away with only a few scratches. The bullet had only winged him. A good rest tonight, and he would be ready for action again tomorrow.

He watched the news as he worked, displayed on the large-screen plasma TV bolted to the hotel room wall. Harold didn't use dirty motels with poor reception and questionable green things growing in the corners. He was at the Holiday Inn, a clean, respectable place. After all, he had chosen a clean, respectable life. He'd chosen not to kill anymore, and he had been happy with that choice. His wife and children and job waited for him back home.

 _What am I doing here_?

Avenging a brother he had not spoken to for ten years. A man he loved, but who's lifestyle he had forsaken. It was, after all, Eugene's string of murders that had gotten him killed. It was like some hot-headed kid and beaten him up in a drunken brawl, or another hit-man had taken him down. Eugene had reaped the reward of a life of crime. His sad end was the reason Harold had left when he did.

The blonde girl's face, full of fear and pain, hung in Strickler's vision. She was innocent. Yet tonight, he hadn't cared. He'd shattered her world, for what?

Now, Harold's face along with Uncle Tommy and several other family members were plastered across the TV screen. The authorities still weren't sure who was responsible for the attempt on Winchester's life. He could leave now, go home, pretend this never happened and finish out his life in peace.

He could leave now, and come back in ten years, plug Winchester on the anniversary of Eugene's death, or his birthday, or some other sentimental day, with no FBI around to play guard dog anymore.

This was Harold's chance. He finished the last stitches and pulled back the covers. The codeine wrapped him in a pleasant haze, relaxing his entire body despite the tensions of the day.

Brother. What was a brother worth? When was vengeance necessary, when must a brother be left to the consequences of his life choices? As the shock and grief slowly slipped away, Strickler realized he no longer knew the answers to these questions.

Brothers. Dean Winchester's eyes had been those of a hunting dog fixed on one goal, and one only. Those eyes chased Strickler through his dreams. If he chose to change course, would he be allowed to? Could a brother let vengeance go?

000

The closing door echoed in Sam's thoughts the rest of the night. Dean had come. Sam didn't know how Dean knew to be here. He didn't care. His brother was here.

For so long after leaving home, Sam had felt like he was missing something right on the edge of his vision. The presence of his big brother, always ready to torment or comfort him depending on the needs of the day, had filled his life. Dad came and went. Dean was always just there. To be rid of that presence had felt like something was missing from the world, like that nagging feeling one gets when you know there's something you've forgotten, you just can't remember what. Sam had spend his first month at Stanford looking over his shoulder for that presence, only to find empty space.

When he woke in the morning, Sam went immediately to the window. There it was, the black Impala gleaming in the sunlight, Dean's boots poking out of one window. A slightly dented Oldsmobile was parked behind it, Caleb perched on the hood, eyes fixed on the Moore house. They were guarding in shifts, one sleeping while the other kept watch.

 _Come with me_.

The offer had been tempting. Sam had almost walked out the door with his brother. Dean was right. The Impala was the safest place for him to be right now. Part of him wanted nothing more than to curl up in the back seat and fall asleep listening to rock music while Dean drove.

Jessica wrapped her arms around him from behind and nuzzled his neck. "Morning."

Safe meant losing everything.

Sam turned and wrapped his arms around Jess. "Morning. You doing ok?"

"Me? You're the one who had us worried, Sam."

Last night was still a blur, but the memories would sort themselves out with time. Today, he needed to move forward. "I'm fine."

Sandy had breakfast ready for them, healthy whole-wheat pancakes, fresh fruit, and turkey bacon. She and Brian were both facing high blood-pressure and cholesterol in their late middle-age. Dean would shudder at the sight, and probably head to Denny's for carry-out. Sam didn't mind at all, he enjoyed the pancakes, though he would have preferred real bacon. For a few happy moments, they sat and ate as if this were just a normal day, as if nothing had happened last night to shatter the peace of daily life.

Then came the knock on the door, and the parade of men and women in suits with guns tucked up under their jackets. An FBI army, just like Dean had said. He was probably making some quip to Caleb now, about Men in Black being so much cooler.

"Sheriff Moore, it's time we got moving." Agent Henricksen was in the front, hands on hips, looking them over like a drill sergeant disappointed in his new recruits. "We should have left last night."

"Going where?" Sam asked. There were duffel bags by the door, five of them. Someone had packed his things. He turned to Jess. "What did I miss last night?"

"Mr. Winchester, we're putting you and the Moore family into protective custody. We have a nice safe house all fixed up for you. You'll be perfectly safe there until we catch whoever shot at you last night." Henricksen's voice was gentler than Sam had ever heard it before. It sounded odd.

"You mean the maniac who tried to _kill_ us," Jessica said. Her arms were crossed and her chin raised, her entire posture screaming, _Don't you dare treat me like an innocent idiot_.

"Yes, the maniac who tried to kill you will probably try again. So we should get moving." Henricksen met Jessica's glare coolly, and gestured meaningfully toward the duffel bags without making any move to help with the heavy lifting.

"Where?" Sam demanded, refusing to move as the family each went for their duffel bags. Jenna, who had hardly stopped talking during breakfast, was mute now. She hugged her bag close and waited with big eyes, staring at Sam as if he'd grown a third head. Sheriff Moore's brow creased and he glanced between Sam and Henricksen, and kept himself planted firmly between them, albeit a bit off to the side. Ready to move to block a fight. It was, after all, only a matter of time before one took a swing at the other.

"We're going to a safe house, Sam. You said you wanted to be safe." Jessica wrapped her hand in his and tugged him toward the duffel bags. "They don't want to tell us where it is until we get there."

Sam glared at Henricksen, who stared blandly back.

"You're going to protect me."

"It's my job."

Sam snorted. "You never cared much about that before."

Henricksen's bland expression broke, and he shook his head with a grin. "Ah, I hoped you'd forgotten that. How old were you, ten?"

"Twelve."

"Yeah. Whatever. You were a rude, stubborn brat then, and you might be worse now for all I know. You can commit all the credit card fraud you want, or shack up with your girlfriend here in a drug den surrounded by illegal firearms. I don't care. A murderer is after you, so I will protect you. That's my job."

 _Jerk_. Yet, even as Henricksen's words made Sam wish for an excuse to punch him, he believed them. Agent Henricksen would do everything in his power to do the job. It reminded him of Dean. Through the open door he could see his brother, now awake and looking rumpled, leaning on the Impala's door with his arms crossed.

Sam returned his attention to Henricksen. "You think you can keep me safe?"

"Actually, Mr. Winchester, I will be in charge of you protective detail. Agent Morris, at your service." At wiry white man shouldered his way around Henricksen and held out a hand to shake Sam's. "Given you history with the Bureau, we felt it would be better if you worked with a fresh face. Agent Henricksen will lead the manhunt for Strickler, I will be in charge of your safety."

Henricksen looked as if steam might pour form his ears at any moment. He twitched, but said nothing. _Demoted_? Sam smirked.

"We have a nice home ready for you. You'll need to stay inside, of course. The windows will be covered, so no chance of sniper fire finding you again. We also have-"

"No."

Sam could remember a horrible eternity when he was seven. It couldn't have lasted for more than half an hour, but it felt like forever. He had been stuffed into a dark hidey-hole by Dean, and told to wait. He'd clutched his knees and bit his tongue to hold back silent sobs as he listened to his father and his brother fight. The shock wave of an explosion had flattened him to the wall, and for a horrible moment he had thought both of them dead. Only he was alive. Safe, protected, and alone.

Sam never wanted to feel safe that way again. If there was danger, he would face it head on. He would know what was coming, and he would make it wish it hadn't come at all.

Agent Morris blinked. "Excuse me?"

"No," Sam said again. "I'm staying here."

Sheriff Moore stepped forward. "Sam, this is the safest way. We need to let the FBI do their job."

"How long until we can come back? Can you guarantee we'll be able to go back to Palo Alto at the start of the semester?"

Agent Morris shook his head. "I cannot promise you anything, Mr. Winchester. I have every confidence that Agent Henricksen will eliminate the treat as soon as-"

"Yeah, I've seen his tracking skills at work." Sam packed the words with as much contempt as possible, and Henricksen twitched again.

"I track murderers, Winchester. I'll find him."

"You'll find him quicker if I work with you." _What are you saying_! It was a terrible idea. In fact, probably the worst idea he'd had since hitchhiking from New York to California. The glint of the Impala, Dean's familiar figure leaning against the hood, they gave him a courage he thought he'd left behind.

Henricksen jumped on it like a lion eager for the hunt to begin. "You'll be in danger. You could die."

"It will keep them safe." Sam nodded to the Moore family, clutching their duffels, various levels of fear and amazement on their faces.

Henricksen nodded. "Probably."

"Then let's do it."

000

"What the Hell do you think you're dong?" Jessica had never felt fury like this before. Not when Benjamin Little pulled her hair and called her 'sissy' in second grade, not when Jenna broke her look-alike American Girl doll, not when Tony Arnold stood her up at homecoming, not even when the girl behind her in chem class had plagiarized her project and Jess had to take the F or else come up with a new one. She thought she knew what angry felt like, but she'd really had no idea.

The emotional chaos flowing through her system these past few days had her feeling ragged. First, Sam was hurt. Then, all of these secrets coming out to slap her in the face with her ignorance. Last night, she'd been so scared. It was possibly the worst night of her life. Then Dad and the FBI had settled a way to keep them all safe. And now, _this_.

Jessica felt like her brain was boiling, and the emotional muck that had been swirling around for days would just come spilling out at any moment. She didn't care anymore. Let it. She'd tried to be understanding. She'd tried to let Sam have his space, give him what he needed. She'd even kept quiet about his brother's visit. Relationships are a two-way street, and she needed something, too.

When they had left her parents' home she'd been determined to handle this like everything else that had been thrown her way. She would be patient, take her time over the next hour or to, and slowly talk Sam into do the right thing, the safe thing. He'd said himself he wanted to be safe! But somewhere on the drive, her calm had eroded, and as soon as they were in the privacy of their own apartment, the FBI guards shed at the door, she rounded on him with all her considerable fury.

Sam just stood there with his wide eyes, the ones that she would never admit made her melt every time, and let her fume. Her words bounced off him as if he were made of rubber.

"What is happening to our lives? It's like we're in some kind of surrealist action movie. First, you come home with a cut and you're stitching yourself up with _dental floss_. People don't do that, Sam! Then, I find out you killed someone. Yeah, he was a murderer, but you didn't even blink. That's weird."

"I'm sorry," Sam said, his voice soft.

"Sorry?" Jessica's voice was getting shriller. "I felt sorry for you, Sam. I thought, his life has been hard. I've seen the scars. I know there's a lot you don't tell me. I hoped someday you would." She pressed her hands together and shook her head as Sam opened his mouth to say something. "No, you don't have to tell me anything. Not now, not like this. I want you to trust me enough, I want you to tell me because you want to, not because you have to."

Sam's eyes reached for the floor, as if hoping it would swallow him. "I'm sorry," he said again.

"Then, the grenade. You picked up a grenade! Oh, sure, you threw it away and no one got hurt, but people don't do that, Sam! You see a grenade and you run away!" Spots danced in front of Jessica's eyes and she put her hands to her head to try to make the world stop wobbling. It was like another person had entered her head, and was flipping switches she didn't even know she had. She'd regret this later, but the boiling wouldn't stop and words just kept spilling out.

"The lake house looks like a war zone. This is California! There hasn't been a war here for over a hundred years."

"I'm sorry." He kept saying that, and each time it was softer. Her pitch dropped, matching his, and the world began to steady again.

"It's not your fault there's a crazy dangerous man out there trying to kill you. Me. Us." Jessica took a deep, shuddering breath and realized her face was wet with tears. When had that happened? She wiped her eyes.

"I even kept quiet when your brother marched through last night. What does 'gank a ghoul' mean, anyway? Never mind." There were too many things happening, she couldn't keep it all straight. _Focus_. "You said you want to be safe. That's the plan! We're getting away from this mess, and you-you-"

Sam closed the distance between them in a single step and wrapped his arms around her. He was so big compared to her, his chest was like a warm shield. In this embrace, she would be safe from a thousand grenades. But what about him? They would tear his flesh to hamburger.

"I love you too, Jess. That's why I have to do this."

He knew, and she was relieved. She hated thinking her words would wound him, but they hadn't. He knew that every sharp word she said, every angry shriek, was just another way to say, "I love you and I'm terrified I'll lose you."

"No!" She sobbed into his shoulder. "Come with us and be safe. You said you wanted to be safe!"

"I do." There was a crack in his voice and his arms tightened around her. He buried his face in her hair and she could feel the moisture of his tears. "I hate this. It's the last thing I wanted, but it's the only way."

"What about your brother? He thinks you'll be safe with him. Why?"

"Ha! I would be, because he would never stop driving. We would sleep in a different motel every night, and eat at a different restaurant every meal. If we're always moving, Strickler can't catch up. That's how I grew up, because…my dad's kind of paranoid. I can't live like that again." Sam leaned back and loosed his hold, so that he could look her in the eye. "Witness protection with the FBI is not different. They'd lock me up in one house, instead of keeping moving all the time, but it's still no way to live. I want to go back to Stanford. I want to come back here and get a job and buy a house and live _my_ life. I want you to finish your degree and be free to work anywhere you want."

"It won't be forever, Sam. They'll catch him-"

"It took them ten years to catch the first one, and he was about to get away from them." Sam shook his head. His chin was set. Jess knew that look. "This guy could vanish and we'd be in hiding for years. No. We have to draw him out and bring him down _now_."

Jess paused. Her thoughts had settled. Something about Sam's voice cooled the boil and made everything clear. "Then I'm staying with you."

"No." The word was rock-hard and unassailable, his gentle tone gone. "That would only make this harder. You need to go with your family. You don't know how to deal with this kind of thing."

"You do." It wasn't a question. These past few days had made that much very clear. Sam didn't look scared, which was what worried her the most. He should be terrified, but he was calm as ever.

She knew how this story went. She'd seen enough movies. The brave but naïve non-combatant sticks their nose in where they don't belong, and someone gets hurt because of it. He was right. _Damn_. It was the last thing she wanted, but it was necessary.

That was a theme in her life lately. Do what is necessary. Be calm.

Well, she would give him what he needed. She wouldn't stay where she would create more danger. She would stay safe, and she would find a way to get what she wanted, too. There was an agent outside, the black, bald one with the pushy attitude. He'd met Sam before, that much was clear.

If Sam wouldn't give her answers, she would find them another way. She let herself sink into the moment; one last hug, one last kiss, whispers of love and a promised return. Then she took the longest walk she'd ever taken, although she walked this same floor every day. Every step her feet felt like lead, but she refused to cry anymore. She stepped out the door and fixed her eyes on Agent Henricksen.

"Agent. Will you drive me back to my parents house? I'd like a few words with you before I go."

 **Note** : That's it! Hope you enjoyed the chapter, please let me know your reactions in the reviews!

What will Strickler decide to do? What will Dean do when he realized Sam is setting himself up to be bait? Also, don't forget John's now only 1 day's drive away. More to come soon!


	16. While We Wait

**Note:** Thank you to all of my reviewers! I am so glad to hear from each and every one of you. I hope you enjoy this next chapter, it was a little tricky to write.

 **Chapter 16: While we wait**

Silence. It filled the empty spaces like a solid force. Sam's limbs braced under the weight that had settled over everything when the door closed behind Jessica. It felt like his entire future had walked out with her, and he was alone with the unknown.

Sam went to the refrigerator and pulled out a bottle of water. Not because he was thirsty, but just to have something to do. The water chilled his belly, and he could feel goose-bumps break out on his skin.

This was the hardest part. Waiting.

Sam had been bait before. As the smallest member of the Winchester hunting party, he had looked like easy prey, especially during those few years right before his growth spurt started. He would have to stand out in the open, looking like a tasty meal, waiting. Dad and Dean had always been close by, with big guns loaded with iron. Often he would be protected by salt lines or other sigils as well.

Now, he had one man in a suit standing at his doorway, his gun loaded with nothing but lead. Sam shivered. He felt naked. He had been scared, as a child, but not like this. Never before had it felt like a block of ice landed in his belly and would never melt.

His chin moved out of reflex to look over his shoulder, to the exact spot where either Dean or Dad usually stood, tucked out of sight, ready to protect him.

Dean leaned against the window, arms crossed, eyes boring into Sam in a look that spelled trouble. Sam paused, and blinked. The image didn't waver.

Of course Dean's here. How could I forget? The apartment was on the first floor. It would be easy for Dean to slip through the open window. What bothered Sam was that he hadn't heard.

"You've gone soft, Sammy. You should have heard me come in. Especially if you're baiting a trap for a serial killer. Which is what you're doing, isn't it? Staging a fight with your girlfriend, her storming out, the family going off to witness protection, and you still here. This is a trap. And if it's a trap, you should be ready for someone to spring it." Dean pointed a finger-gun at Sam. "Before you get shot. Again."

"I didn't get shot!"

"Damn near to it!"

Sam shook his head and turned away. Once again, the refrigerator offered a welcome distraction. "Want a drink?"

"What, water?" Dean spread his hands and raised an eyebrow. Seriously?

"Right." Sam sighed and closed the refrigerator again. "It's the best plan, Dean. I've been bait before."

"That was different."

"Different how?"

"Monsters follow rules. People don't. You were always well protected, and you had me and Dad at your back. You can't rely on the feds-"

"I've got you."

Silence again. Dean's eyes narrowed as his brain wormed its way around this new argument.

"Yeah, ok, you got me. But Dad's not here yet and we can't just lay salt lines or draw a fancy circle to keep this guy away."

"Yeah, I know that, Dean." Sam sighed and set his water aside. He collapsed on the couch, head in his hands. "What do you want me to do? I have to keep Jessica and her family safe."

The couch shifted as Dean sat down next to him. He didn't touch Sam, didn't say any words of comfort. Dean just wasn't like that. But somehow his silent presence was more soothing than Jess's warm arms wrapped around him, whispering soothing words in his ear. Dean filled the silence, jettisoning it out the window along with the fear that weighed it down.

"Come on the road with me, Sammy. At least get out of town while Dad hunts this guy down."

Sam looked up, facing his brother's intense gaze with one of his own. "I'm not leaving, Dean." He would win this fight, or he would die trying. He wouldn't live his life hiding.

Dean closed his eyes, as if blocking out some horrible vision. What future tragedy did his imagination present to him? Sam, lying bloody on the floor while Strickler feasted on his entrails? But he nodded.

"Alright. We'll play it your way for now." As if he had any choice in the matter. Always, Dean acted like he was in charge. The fiction made him happier, so Sam didn't argue. Dean couldn't drag him away if he tried.

000

"So, you've met Sam before. When he was twelve."

The Moore girl's voice was thick from crying. She didn't try to hide the red, snotty mess her tearful good-bye had made of her face. Henricksen had heard most of her tirade through the door. He hadn't expected such a calm person to emerge. Her cool request that he drive her back home had caught him off-guard. He expected her to be buried in a Kleenex, mopping her eyes and crying fresh tears.

A glance at her face in the rearview told him that her time for tears was done. It was a relief, really. Henricksen could handle cold-hearted creeps, no one cared if he hurt their feelings. It was the witnesses and victims he always had a hard time dealing with. He'd been sent to sensitivity training twice. It hadn't helped.

This girl did not look traumatized, she looked determined. If there was a mountain, she would move it.

Right now, he was the mountain, and it was clear what she wanted. He'd never understood the philosophers quest to understand the human mind. He found profilers and criminal psychologists useful for tracking patterns that would lead him to the bad guys. But he didn't care about the why. He didn't care why a man killed, raped, or tortured innocent people. He didn't want to understand all of the terrible things that must have happened, to make them recreate the horrors of their pitiful lives for others. He didn't want to understand the mind of a monster. He just wanted to see the cycle stop. Kill the bad guy, or put him in jail.

He didn't believe in bad people changing their ways. Though every once in a while, he had to admit that it happened. One person in a thousand could chose a different life than the one fate had set up for them.

Sam Winchester, whatever his past, clearly wanted no part of it. He might be able to do it; stay clean, live a normal life, leave whatever monsters lurked in Daddy's past behind him.

This girl, Jessica, wanted answers. Answers that might end this gooey little romance the two had brewing.

But if she learned enough, she might be able to drag the rest from Sam. She might be able to fill in the missing puzzle pieces that Victor just couldn't find.

Henricksen had spent his life punching through the masks people created to drag their true faces, and their crimes, into the light of the justice system.

He might not care what dark tragedy motivated John Winchester, but he still needed to know what he did. What kept him on the road, filling out fake credit card applications and buying thousands of dollars of ammunition.

What did he do with all that firepower? Who had he hurt? Where was his trail of victims? Henricksen had to have answers in order to stop the carnage. Because Victor knew, without a doubt, that John Winchester's decades-long road trip was steeped in blood and death.

If Sam was holding back a secret, one that could mean solving dozens, maybe hundreds of cold cases, Henricksen would do anything to uncover the truth.

So he told her.

"I did meet Sam, briefly. His father is a con artist, lived most of his life on credit card fraud. I was trying to catch him years ago. He's a tricky bastard. We never got close. Sam didn't like that I was trying to put his daddy in jail."

Family loyalty. Henricksen hated it. He'd seen too many people die because a mother wouldn't give up her son, or a man wouldn't give up his lover. If someone broke the law, blood ties shouldn't matter.

He eyed the girl in the backseat through the rearview. Where would she stand, if it came down to it?

"He never told me anything about his father. I didn't think he cared."

"Oh, he cares. Winchesters care about family more than anything." Victor had learned that the hard way.

"Would he be safer with his family?"

"Probably. They don't have a home. Sam hasn't lived anywhere more than three months in his entire life. No one would be able to find them. So sure, he'd be safe."

Jessica nodded thoughtfully, eyes staring blankly out the window. "What was he like, as a child?"

"A pain in the ass." Literally. Henricksen's rear-end ached just thinking about it. Sam was one of the reasons Victor no longer even debated the decision not to have children of his own. "Sam Winchester was obnoxious, smart, and manipulative. Even then, I think his dad was training him. He can turn on a look that will have most people falling over themselves to help him, on cue. I've seen him do it. Had the social worker on my back faster than you can say 'boo.'"

Jessica giggled. "Ha! I bet. I've seen him do it. But, if his dad was just a con artist, why does Sam know how to fight?"

"I still don't know what John Winchester is up to. Credit card fraud was just how he paid the bills. He's into some weird shit, and none of it makes any sense. It's all in that file I gave your Daddy."

"File?" Jessica's head snapped around and she slid forward in her seat. She looked like she was ready to crack Henricksen's head open, if only she could read the inside of his skull like a book. She was hungry for information, like a woman craving chocolate during PMS. "What file?"

"I gave your dad everything we have on the Winchesters."

Jessica's eyes narrowed. Henricksen chuckled to himself as he pulled into the drive of the Moore home.

000

Waiting. It was a skill that Brian Moore had learned long ago as a young deputy on patrol. Sitting, bored, on the side of the road as the radar displayed the speed of each passing car. Struggling to stay awake on stakeout. Combing through woods to find a missing child. Election day, watching the vote tally come in to see if he would have a job, or not.

Waiting was familiar territory to Brian. He knew how to settle in but remain alert, relaxed but focused, ready for whatever life handed him next.

Today was no different. The stakes were higher than ever before, the pain closer to home, it was true. But the basic principal remained the same. Worry wouldn't help, imagining the worst would not change the damage to come. He couldn't react before the time was right. All he could do was settle down, and wait.

Sandy had been nearly as furious as Jessica, when it became clear that he had decided to stay with Sam. In lieu of venting her feelings on him, she had attacked the kitchen, snapping peas and cutting vegetables for an hour to create a week's worth of ready-meals for the freezer before she allowed the FBI to escort her out.

So Brian sat at home, alone, while a casserole baked in the oven. It would have been the perfect time to read the file on J Winchester that Agent Henricksen had so kindly lent him. But that opportunity was gone, also courtesy of Agent Henricksen.

As soon as the casserole was done, Brian wrapped it up in a layer of towels and kindly asked his FBI escort to drive him across town. Thankfully, Agent Henricksen was nowhere to be seen. Another agent stood at the door to Sam's apartment. She looked jealously at the bundle of steaming towels in Brian's hands before shooing him through the door.

Sheriff Moore had imagined Sam standing vigil with one hand on a bat and the other on the phone, red-eyed, mouth set. He didn't expect to see his potential son-in-law sprawled, relaxed and smiling, across the couch. Or the visitor with his booted feet propped on the kitchen table. They were laughing at something, but both smiles vanished as soon as Brian entered.

"Mr. Moore!" Sam scrambled to his feet. "What are you doing here?"

"Didn't Agent Henricksen tell you? I'm staying."

Sam's eyes flashed. What had happened between them, all those years ago? Another mystery Brian would not solve tonight.

"He hasn't come back. I thought we'd be making a plan by now, but all the FBI will do is guard the door."

"Hm." Experience showed that prodding the FBI was not a good idea. So. More waiting. Brian placed the bundle on the table and began unwrapping the casserole dish. "I brought dinner. There ought to be enough for three." He turned to look expectantly at the stranger. There was something familiar about him.

Sam turned to the other man and paused for a moment, as if considering what to say. The other man kept silent, watching Sam's reaction closely.

"This is my brother, Dean."

Dean grinned, and suddenly Brian knew exactly where he had seen him before. "Dean. The porn man."

Dean's grin widened, showing teeth. "I kept a few of the best, they're in my car, if your interested."

Sam flushed, his skin turning a delicate rose color. "Porn man?"

"Your brother was kind enough to bring me a sample from Deputy Mann's collection. Apparently, he kept it in that little shack on the edge of his patrol radius."

Sam choked on a laugh. "What? Really?"

"Best porn collection ever." Dean waggled his eyebrows, and took the casserole from Brian. "This smells great. The wife make it?"

Brian nodded. "I don't cook."

"Yeah, neither does Sam. Don't let him near a stovetop. Ever." Dean kept talking as he dished up dinner onto three plates, and Sam turned redder and redder as tales of his cooking misadventures grew until finally he cut in,

"Dean! That never happened. I did not burn boiling water."

"Yes, you did. Scorched the pot because you got busy doing-get this-homework of all things. The sprinkler system turned on and his project was ruined." Dean snickered and dived into his dinner. Silence descended as three men filled their hungry bellies.

As soon as his mouth was free of food again, Dean started talking and didn't stop. Sheriff Moore found himself trading stories with the younger man as if he were a close friend of many years. Stories of Jessica, mostly, and life in Lakeport.

 _I am being interrogated_.

It was the friendliest interrogation Brian had ever experienced, but it was a careful, focused quest for information nonetheless. Information about Sam and this girl who seemed to have him all tied up in knots. It was the conversation that Brian would have expected to have with Sam's father at some point. If he ever met the man.

If he even existed. Watching them together, Brian knew he had never seen anything like it. They were more than brothers. It took a parent's eyes to see it, but Brian would bet that Dean had raised Sam. It wasn't anything obvious, just the little details. A crude comment by Dean to elicit laughter when Sam's expression became dark and troubled. Dean checking to make sure Sam was full before clearing the table. Dean, washing the dishes automatically, just like a mother hen.

With the table cleared and dishes done, the awkward silence set in. No one wanted to sleep. Despite the homey guise of eating casserole and swapping family stories, the threat still lurked in their minds. Everyone was alert, eyes glancing toward the window every five minutes. Sleep was not gong to be an option.

Sam sat motionless on the couch, his face doing its best impression of a thundercloud. No, Sam had never been a patient person. He'd not had Brian's practice with waiting.

Dean didn't weather the silence well at all. He prowled like a caged animal, nosing into corners and fiddling with knickknacks. Until he found the board game stash, and promptly mocked every one of them.

Brian knew the charade. Jessica had used the same one when she thought she should be too old for Barbie dolls, but still wanted to play with them anyway. He pulled Monopoly off the bottom of the stack. It was the game Dean's eyes had lingered on the longest. Both Sam and Dean grumbled and complained, but not too loudly. They spent five minutes haggling over who got which piece.

Brian suppressed a smug smirk. He'd never seen a more cutthroat battle of paper money and plastic houses. It was not until it was clear that he was losing that Dean started to complain again.

"Ah, a board game. When was the last time we played one of these, huh Sammy?" Dean twirled the Monopoly piece in his hand before shooting past Boardwalk to land on Go.

"Since you couldn't stop cheating." Sam shoved Dean's piece back three spaces. "I own Boardwalk. Pay up."

Dean rolled his eyes, but dished out a fist full of colorful money. "Cheat? Me?"

"Yes, you."

Brian re-adjusted his assessment of the pair. Dean was half a parent, half a brother. If this was his daughters, the game would devolve into a wrestling match any moment now.

"This isn't the right amount." Sam glared. Dean's eyes danced and he shifted his weight. Sheriff Moore read the warning signs and stepped out of the way. Sam lunged for the money, Dean rolled sideways.

They knew how to fight. They knew how to kill. Sam could stab a man without blinking, and Dean had a gun shoved in the back of his jeans. But they yelled and rolled, wriggled and slapped each other like a pair of toddlers fighting over a cookie.

Brian didn't know why people said boys were easier to raise than girls, or vice versa. It was all the same, when it came to siblings. Put a sibling set together and their collective maturity level dropped with every passing minute. He sheltered in the kitchen under the pretense of warming up his coffee. The two full-grown men rolled across the floor, scattering plastic houses and money left and right.

Well, it had been about time to quit anyway.

A shriek filled the room. Sheriff Moore coughed and nearly choked on his coffee. It was lower in pitch, but the scene could have been his daughters, any day of the week.

"Hey! You pulled by hair!"

"Bitch."

"Jerk."

Twenty. They were both over twenty and acting like they were five. With a mad man on the loose, they should have been hunkered down away from the windows and waiting in tense silence. But they played, they laughed, and they insulted each other like no one else could.

The sheer normalcy of the scene soothed the pinched, worried nerves in Brian's forehead. The darkness in Sam's past hadn't squashed him. Whatever came next, the boy would be alright.

If they could get him through it once piece.

000

Tucked away in a corner of a valley near the rocky coast was a home with no listed address, and no listed phone number. The windows of the van had been tinted, obscuring the scenery so that the Moore women had little idea where they were going.

Two agents in suits, with guns strapped to their hips, had set up a card table by the door. They played their game silently, pretending they weren't there, eyes occasionally roving to check the windows.

Jenna had curled up on Mom's lap, uncharacteristically silent, watching a cheesy movie. Nothing with guns, fights or death would do today.

It didn't help. The colors on the TV screen seemed dull. Jessica didn't know how Jenna could laugh, how Mom could look so relaxed. Her own thoughts spun in a thousand different directions, but they all landed in the same place.

Jessica escaped to the bed room, but she made no move to go to sleep. Instead, she settled on the pillows and pulled a manilla folder out of her bag. Jessica ran her thumb across the pile of paper in her lap, making the corners flap like one of those animated notepads she'd had as a child. Except there was no cheerful drawing in these pages, a two-second animated adventure. There was a much deeper story here, and this file, Jessica was sure, only scratched the surface.

Henricksen had all but admitted that he was completely stumped by the Winchesters. This file might just raise more questions than it would solve.

She had fought hard for these sheaves of black-and-white. Dad hadn't been happy when she had asked for it, and he had only handed it over very reluctantly.

Had he planned to tell her about it at all? It was a strange thought, that her father would keep secrets from her. Secrets seemed to be the Winchester trademark, following them like a bad smell. Everyone knew they were there, but they couldn't figure out why.

She looked down at the file, the sum total of the FBI's knowledge of Sam, Dean, and John. Who were this brother and father, whom Sam never talked about? What did the Winchester's hunt?

With a sigh, Jessica opened the file and began to read.

 **Note:** Please review!

John is almost to Lakeport, Strickler has a decision to make, and Jessica is about to learn a lot more than she bargained for. More chapters coming in another week or so.


	17. Blood

**Note:** Thanks again to everyone who reviewed the last chapter. It means a lot to me to hear from you. We have a lot of action coming up in the next few chapters. I hope you enjoy the ride!

 **Chapter 17: Blood**

John sat in the back of his truck in the motel parking lot. The shack where he had stayed before was now roped off with police tape, so free lodging was out of the question. He didn't notice the sunrise, tinting everything in a rosy shade of red. Like a pool of blood shimmering in the sky. His eyes were fixed on the road, waiting for familiar pair of headlights to round the bend. He didn't see the shadow lurking behind the corner of the motel.

The Impala rolled into view and slid into the spot next to the truck. The passenger seat empty.

Always, Dean was the perfect soldier. He followed orders without question. He didn't complain, didn't argue. Until it came to Sam. Sam was his one weakness. He would go off plan, because Sam suggested it. He would debate a point Sam brought up. He would let his little brother win arguments that should never have been allowed in the first place.

John had given Dean clear orders. Stick to Sam until I come. Bring him home, keep him safe.

Sam should have been in the passenger seat, but it was empty. Sam had won. Again.

"Where is your brother?" John asked before Dean could even close the car door behind him.

"He wanted to be bait, wriggling like a worm on an FBI hook. I couldn't budge him. He's got Feds and local police watching him. He'll be fine." Dean said it like he was trying to convince himself as much as his father.

John was not comforted. "This is a man we're talking about, Dean. You know what that means."

John had learned the hard way that, for all the danger monsters posed to the world, men were worse. A ghost was stuck to one location. A werewolf hunted only once a month. Ghouls ate the dead. Monsters followed rules, they stuck to patterns. Men could go where they wanted, when they wanted. The light of day or the dark of night, it didn't matter.

"He wouldn't come, Dad."

They both knew that if Sam set his mind to something, he wouldn't be stopped. It was how this mess had gotten started in the first place.

"Right. We need to find the guy. Fast. He has to die, Dean. If the Feds arrest him, he'll be let loose eventually. Ten months or ten years, the length of the sentence doesn't matter. If they don't lock him up for life, Sam will be in danger as soon as he is free."

"Yeah." Dean nodded grimly. He never liked killing men, but he had done it before. On John's orders. To protect Sam. "Caleb has been helping the Feds for the past two days, they haven't found anything."

John hefted his rifle over his shoulder. "My turn."

000

Three days. It had been three days since the attack on the Moore's lake house. Three days since Jessica had left. Three days under the watchful eye of the FBI. Sam couldn't go anywhere, do anything, without a figure in a suit following. They followed him on his morning jog, which he obediently took on the path Henricksen laid out for him. He ate at the restaurant Henricksen picked. He kept the lights on late and spent time on his porch, all to invite the unknown killer to venture out and try again.

Nothing had happened. All was quiet.

No one had any news for him. Caleb flitted back and forth between Dean and the FBI, keeping information flowing between hunters and feds. He told Sam nothing, merely shot him a friendly wave as he passed by to report to the agent in charge.

Sheriff Moore watched Caleb go. His eyes met Sam's, then flicked away. Sam's stomach squirmed. I lied to him.

In all this mess, he regretted that the most. Old friends brought back old habits. He could feel the hunter in him itching to get out. He'd almost put on jeans today, instead of the slacks required at the office. His polyester polo shirt felt itchy and confining. The office, which had begun to feel welcoming and homey, just felt like a cage.

Sam bit back a growl of frustration and marched up to Henricksen's desk. He'd done this every day, for three days. Always, he came away with the same answer: Do as you're told. Don't ask questions.

Sam had been fed that line all his life. He'd stopped accepting it when he turned nine. Sam crossed his arms and glared at Henricksen, who tipped his chair back and tucked his hands behind his head as if lounging on a sofa.

"Why won't anyone tell me what is going on?"

"Because you're not FBI, kid. You're not actually a deputy. You have no qualified training-"

"I-"

"Yeah, you can fight. I got the memo. I don't care what skills you have. You don't know procedure, you don't know the tech, and you aren't going to coordinate with my men. You are not an active member of this team, you are the bait. If you die, I get fired. If you get shot, I get fired. If Strickler gets away, I get fired. So I will run this operation my way, and that means you go where I tell you, when I tell you. You get updates when I decide, and not before. Now sit back down at your desk and do your job! Oh, look, here's some paperwork that needs filing."

Henricksen shoved a cardboard box into Sam's arms. Sam glared at Henricksen, chest heaving. Henricksen launched himself out of his chair and brushed past Sam, snapping out orders to his flunkies. Sam tossed the box aside and kicked the side of his desk.

"Sam." Sheriff Moore's voice was low and soothing. It was the tone he used on unruly prisoners, or distraught victims.

Sam sucked in a deep breath. "Sorry, sir. It's just-he-I need to be doing something. I hate sitting around, waiting. I can help find this guy."

The Sheriff's eyes crinkled, but he gave no other sign of his thoughts on the matter. He'd been quiet these past few days, keeping Sam at arms length. He'd been polite, and brought dinner every night. He wasn't unkind, but the easy warmth of their conversations had cooled. Sam wasn't sure what bothered Brian more; the danger Sam had put his family in, or the fact that Sam had lied to him. Either way, the distance between them was growing.

Sam would have turned to Jessica, but he hadn't had the nerve to call her. After her tirade, he didn't know what to expect from her. He knew she had every right to be angry, to want answers. Answers that he couldn't give. Even if he told her the truth, she would never believe him without proof, and he had none to offer. He barely slept, tossing and turning in an empty bed.

Now Dean had vanished, too, and the painful silence in the apartment was almost more than Sam could bear. Dean was free. He got to go wherever he wanted, whenever he wanted.

The passenger seat of the Impala was looking like a better option with each passing day.

The FBI agents, in their dark suits with their regulation hair cuts, felt like steel wool hemming him in and scraping off bits of his resolve.

He couldn't keep this up much longer, but he could make it through this day.

Sam picked up the box. "I guess I better get back to work."

Sheriff Moore gripped his shoulder. "You're doing fine, Sam. Waiting is a hard job. It's not too late to change your mind, go to the safe house."

I'd rather go with Dean.

The realization frightened him. He'd fought so hard to be free of that life. Now, at the first sign of a threat, Sam wanted to run back home. At least hunting monsters, he knew what he was doing. He knew where the threat would come from. Being hunted felt like being eaten alive as bits of his live slowly dissolved around him.

"Then she bit my neck and started chewing! I need to see the Sheriff, now!" A deep voice rose up over the thrum of activity filling the Sheriff's offices.

"Sir, please calm down! You need a doctor!" The receptionist did not have Sheriff Moore's way with words. Her pitch climbed, escalating the tension. The beefy man plowed past her desk toward Brian.

It was Jim Guster, one hand on his neck, blood dripping down his shirt.

Sheriff Moore stepped forward, his tone low and calm. "It looks like the lady is right. You need a doctor."

"That can wait. You need to get on this, Sheriff." Guster staggered and caught himself on a nearby desk. His eyes flickered and his knees wobbled. "Crazy cannibal in town, sir. Tried to eat me. Took one of the Scouts."

Guster was pale from blood loss. It trailed behind him, a sticky river of red. Sheriff Moore guided him toward a chair and leaned in close. Behind him, Deputy Mann pulled out his radio to call for an ambulance.

"Took a Scout?" Sheriff Moore asked.

Guster's voice was losing strength, and his words came out in a rush, as if he knew he didn't have much time. "Yes, took Nat Dooley. I was out with the Boy Scout troop cleaning up our section of park. This woman fell out of a tree and landed right on my back. Bit me and started chewing on my neck. I tossed her off, but I couldn't catch her. She ran, nearly tripped on Nat. Bit him on the neck, too. He fell over, like she'd drugged him. She threw him over her shoulder like he was a sack of potatoes, ran off south-east. Passed Abel's Garage, turned left on Second. I couldn't catch up, so I came here. Gil drove me."

"He's only fourteen!" Deputy Mann protested.

Sheriff Moore waved him away. "He did fine. Where is he now, still in the car?"

Guster nodded.

"Where are the rest of the scouts?"

"I told-I told them to go home." Guster's shoulders were slumping, his voice slurring. "I knew I had to get you the info…information. I feel…odd. Drugged. Somehow…"

Guster tilted sideways in his seat, eyes flickering. Sheriff Moore rose to his feet and took stock of the staff available to him.

"Right. Mann, Farrell, you're with me. Make sure you're armed, tell forensics to follow us. They'll need to analyze the scene. I want a volunteer search party coordinated."

Everyone broke away from the huddle around Guster, like a football team ready for a play. Each moved without hesitation to their assigned job. Sam had no assignment. His job was filing papers. That wouldn't be helpful now.

"Sheriff, I can-"

"You stay here, Sam." Sheriff Moore dodged around the EMS team at the doorway. A moment later, Sam heard sirens start up, then fade.

Stay. Wait. Be safe.

All he had ever wanted was to be safe. It wasn't supposed to feel like this.

"Sam? What's happening?" Caleb stood at his elbow, eyes sweeping the room.

Sam pointed to Guster, now surrounded by EMS. "You said there wasn't a hunt here. This man has been bitten by something. There's a kid missing, too."

The words felt clumsy in Sam's mouth. Like Spanish the first day back in class after summer break. The language of hunting, edited for public use.

Caleb's eyes darted between Sam and Guster. "I didn't lie to you, Sam. This is new to me. Any idea what it is?"

Sam shook his head. Caleb bent and murmured a few words to the medics about being a forensic expert, and they peeled back the bandage for a moment. Caleb measured the bite mark with his palm and nodded grimly.

"You're right, Sam. It's our kind of thing. I have to tell your father."

"Dad?" A tingle ran up Sam's spine. "Dad's here?"

"Just got in this morning. He was hunting a vetala."

"Vetala." Sam leaned close to Caleb's ear, to be sure the sound would not carry. "They drink blood."

Caleb nodded. "Yeah, keep you around for a few days after they drug you with their venom. A kid won't last long. We've got to hurry."

Caleb turned toward the door. Sam moved to follow, but Caleb flicked a meaningful glance towards the FBI agents watching from across the office. "No, Sam. You can't come."

Wherever Sam went, an army of FBI agents would follow.

Sam pressed his lips together, but nodded. "Right. Go."

Caleb patted his shoulder, as if to say, 'Good boy,' and dashed out the door.

000

A child was missing. Victor sprang out of his seat automatically, the familiar surge of adrenaline that accompanied every new manhunt thrumming merrily through his veins. Time to get to work. The kid had been gone for twenty minutes, tops. There was a good chance they could find him again.

Then the Sheriff snapped out orders. Henricksen lowered himself back into his chair. This was a local case. He couldn't do anything until the Sheriff asked for help, or identified the perp as one the FBI was already after. Victor had a different job to do here. Today, he was a glorified babysitter.

Victor watched the Lack Co Sheriff's department's finest scatter, and he had to admit they were good at their jobs. No one stumbled or fumbled from nerves or lack of training. They worked together like a well-drilled team. Some looked white and shaky, but they moved competently and soon the office was nearly empty.

Winchester stood, staring at the EMS team laboring over the victim. He was in a fighter's crouch, kneed slightly bent, weight on the balls of his feet. Ready for action with nothing to do.

Could it be that Victor and this kid had something in common?

The gun-runner turned informant, Caleb, exchanged a few words with Winchester. One look at the victim's bit and his posture shifted. They traded whispered words, then Caleb left.

Winchester knew something, and so did Caleb. Crazy had just left a bloody trail across the floor, and Sam was calm. He didn't look scared, just annoyed that he couldn't leave and join the hunt.

You and me both.

Victor bent over his maps again. Thankfully, Winchester didn't come demanding answers again, because Victor had none to give. Three days, and all was quiet. There had been no sign of Harold Strickler or anyone else connected to the family. Henricksen had searched the town to the limits of the law. He wasn't allowed to march through homes and hotel rooms, just to see who was there. No, he served the law, and the law protected privacy. So he was reduced to making Winchester loiter in high-risk zones while he stared at maps and waited for a break.

"That's a map of the city."

Winchester stood behind Henricksen, so close his warm breath tickled Victor's bald head. "Yes. Now that we've established that you are smarter than a fifth grader-hey!"

Sam slipped the map out from under Henricksen's fingers, staring at the black-and-white grid. "Where did you get this? Are there any more?"

"I'm using that to track the psycho who wants to murder you." Henricksen snatched the map back. Sam let out a huff, shook his head in disgust that made it clear Victor was nothing but a bug Sam would love to smash under his shoe, and walked away. He paused at the pin-up board where another map and pictures of the Strickler family and their known allies were hung. Blue tacks indicated all the spaces that had been searched.

Sam ignored the tacks. He ran his hand over the map, muttering to himself.

"Abel's Garage. Left on second." His fingers traced the roads on the map.

What was he looking for? Henricksen watched, anger rising in him. Whatever Winchester knew, he had no right to withhold the information. A child's life was on the line.

"You got something to share with the class?" Henricksen stalked toward Sam, hands in pockets, eyes challenging.

Sam met the challenge with a glare of his own. "No."

Victor opened his mouth to tear into him, but turned when the front door opened.

"Excuse me! I need to talk to a deputy." It was a middle-aged woman in a denim jumper, her graying hair disheveled, ringing her hands.

All of the deputies had gone with the Sheriff. It might not be his jurisdiction, but there was no one else. Henricksen schooled his features, releasing the tension, hiding the anger. It wouldn't do to scare an already scared woman.

Winchester brushed past him, his face the picture of sympathy, big eyes ready to take in all her sorrows, voice soft and comforting. "What's the problem, ma'am?"

She grabbed his outstretched hand like it was a life preserver in a stormy sea.

"My daughter didn't come home today. I know they say you have to wait twenty-four hours, but I'm worried. She's pregnant, six months along, and she could be in trouble."

"I'm glad you came in, ma'am. When was your daughter supposed to be home?"

"Two hours ago. She was out for a walk. She insists on staying active, even though she's pregnant. The doctor said it's fine, but I do worry."

"Of course you do," Sam soothed. "Can you come point out her walking route on this map?" He guided the woman across the room, traced the line her finger indicated, then sent her back out the door with the assurance that the Lake County Sheriff would do everything in his power to find the missing woman.

"Nicely done." It was those eyes, big and innocent. If Hernicksen had eyes like that, maybe victims would cooperate with him, too, instead of running away in terror.

"Shut up." Sam turned his back to Henricksen and stared at the map, eyes narrowed. He moved his fingers across the board, floating over the space between the two disappearances. Then he smacked a dark brown blob and smiled. "There!"

Victor grabbed a radio from the dispatch station, already tuned to the Sheriff's frequency. "Sheriff, I think we've got something."

Sam grabbed the radio and yanked it out of Victor's hands. He pulled out the battery and tossed the plastic box aside.

"Hey!" Hernicksen snatched up radio and battery. What did this kid think he was doing, anyway? It didn't make any sense. He had good lead on the kidnapper's location. Why not give it to the Sheriff?

Sam pulled out his phone. Henricksen paused. If not the Sheriff, who would he call?

Sam spoke into his phone, not bothering with a greeting, his voice crisp and professional as any agent. "Dean, I've got some coordinates for you. There's an old shack off the highway, you probably saw it on your way into town. Go past the baseball diamond, turn left."

Sam watched Henricksen struggling to stuff the battery back into the radio and added, "Oh, you probably ought to put a call into the Sheriff. An anonymous tip, draw them away. Tell them you saw something by the lake." Pause. "No, he knows my number. Use a pay phone, or Dad's phone."

Dad. Henricksen's fingers twitched toward his gun. John Winchester had arrived in town, and with him, a string of strange abductions. Everywhere John Winchester went, strange deaths soon followed.

"The Sheriff needs this information, not your brother!"

Sam closed his phone and faced the FBI agent, shoulders puffed, fists ready for a fight.

"Sheriff Moore doesn't know what he's dealing with. My dad does." Sam grabbed for the radio again. Victor pulled it back out of his reach. Damn battery! Why did they have to make the slots so snug?

Sam rolled his eyes, moved to the dispatch station, and pulled the plug. He dropped the end of the wire on the floor and stomped, smashing the prongs so they would have no hope of fitting back into the wall.

It seemed Sam Winchester hadn't left the family business behind after all.

000

Gank.

Jessica stared at the words on the screen. Altavista, Dogpile and Google all yielded the same results. Gank meant kill.

It was the results of the next search that troubled her more. Ghoul. Monster or spirit associated with graveyards and consuming human flesh. Mentioned in Arabian Nights.

There was also a band by the same name from California.

Jessica felt it a safe assumption that Dean had not asked Sam to help him kill a band. No matter how bad their music, Sam wouldn't have considered it. She had seen the slight hesitation, the upward tilt of his head that indicated interested. He had thought about going with Dean, however briefly.

So what did 'gank a ghoul' mean? Was it some kind of street slang that hadn't made it onto the internet yet?

Whatever Dean meant by 'ghoul', he wanted to kill one. Jessica turned from the computer to stare at the papers strewn across the room. They covered every surface like an invading force, just as the images that invaded her mind drowned out all other thoughts.

Sam's life had been a violent one. His father committed a new crime every week, even if it was just theft or fraud. Sam's dedication 'honest' work took on a whole new meaning. He wouldn't even help the guys in the dorm hustle pool at the bar. He stayed away from dark alleys not because he was afraid of muggers, but because of what he knew he could do to them.

The world Sam had grown up in was as dark and foreign to Jessica as an alien planet. She could see if from afar, but couldn't begin to guess what it was like on the surface. It was no wonder that FBI agent didn't have much to tell her. She saw the giant, gaping whole in this puzzle; a life lived on the run, stealing and buying guns, but for what purpose?

To gank a ghoul.

She turned back to the computer screen. Most of the links were about mythology, folklore, things that everyone agreed weren't real. Except one. In bold blue lettering near the bottom of the page, one link boasted a connection to paranormal investigators.

She clicked on it, and found herself in a world of nightmares-come-true. Like people who believed in UFO sightings, there were people who believed in ghost sightings, and every other kind of monster to boot. Including ghouls.

Did John Winchester believe in the supernatural?

Did Sam?

No, that wasn't possible. Sam knew what was real and what wasn't. He had left that life behind. He had run away from a crazy father and a brother who had been brainwashed to believe these things. That was the secret. Sam was embarrassed by his family. He had been raised by a man who chased things that didn't, that couldn't exist.

"Ohmygosh!" Jenna didn't bother to knock before letting herself in Jessica's room. "Jess, you'll never believe it! There's a vampire in Lakeport! Danny told Hannah who called me. Dad's on the case. There's a kid missing and-" Jenna stopped and stared at the paper explosion covering the room. "What happened here?"

"Nothing." Jessica jumped up and shooed Jenna out the door. "What do you mean, vampire?"

Jenna rolled her eyes. "Well, not a real vampire, duh! There's a crazy woman running around town biting people's necks and sucking out their blood."

"Oh. A crazy person."

That was the only explanation. Everyone knew that vampires weren't real. Just like ghouls weren't real.

Were they?

 **Note:** So many things happening! With a monster and a human threat in town, what will John make his priority? Henricksen is more suspicious than ever, and with good reason. How much will the Moores see, and how much will they believe? The final action is on its way soon, but that won't mean the story is done. Please review and let me know what you think. What do you like so far, what are you excited to see happen next?


	18. Deal

**Chapter 18: Deal**

The cheapest motel in town. It was the Winchester way. Faded wallpaper, ceilings stained yellow from years of smoke, and appliances that only worked half the time. Dean paid no mind to their surroundings. Hotel rooms were all the same after the first fifty. Home was the people he was with.

Right now, Dean was home. He stood shoulder to shoulder with his father, focused on the map spread across the wall. They were looking for a killer, a man who wanted to murder his brother and didn't mind murdering others who got in the way.

In other words, it was just a normal day. With one exception. Today, his brother was the target. That should have scared him, but it didn't. Rolling on the floor, fighting over monopoly money, laughing so hard his belly hurt for the first time in years, that had been a good night.

Good enough to make this entire mess worth it. Almost.

Strickler was smart. Too smart. After three days, they didn't have any leads. He could be hiding under their noses, or long gone, and they had no way to know.

"I don't know where else we can look, unless we start kicking down doors. Might scared a few housewives in the shower." Dean grinned at the thought.

"And get the attention of the Feds. No."

Dean shrugged. He hadn't figured Dad would allow that kind of plan. "So, what next?"

Dad stared at the map. His silence was his answer. He had no more ideas either.

Humans didn't play by monster rules. They weren't tied to one location like a ghost. They didn't hunt according to a pattern or operate mostly at night, like most paranormal creatures. He could be anywhere, do anything. There was no way to predict his movements.

They were running out of options.

"Sam's getting restless. We need to get this guy, Dad." Soon. Dean could see Sam's tension growing every day. Normally a fountain of emotion, he was growing quieter. That was always a bad sign. Dean could never make himself completely comfortable with Sam's emotional side, but he knew it was necessary for his kid brother. When Sam didn't talk about his feelings, they simmered inside, building up pressure until they would burst out at the worst moment. Dean didn't know when, but the explosion was on its way.

"We will." John's voice was calm and self-assured as ever.

Caleb came in bearing sacks of burgers and fries. Lunch. Dean grinned and reached for his. He had learned a long time ago that no matter how dire the situation, food came first. He had fought on an empty stomach exactly once. Fuel kept him strong, kept him sharp. It tasted good, too. He had the first bite of burger in his mouth before Caleb and Dad could exchange greetings.

Dean loved burgers. He always knew what to expect from a burger. No matter which part of the country he was in, his hamburger and fries would be the same. Greasy, salty, and delicious.

Caleb's voice broke into the burger-induced euphoria, turning the food to a tasteless lump in his mouth.

"John, we have a problem. Your hunt followed you here."

John unwrapped his own burger. He, too, knew better than to skip meals. "What do you mean? I salted and burned the body."

"There is a vetala in town. I saw the bite mark, and the victim was clearly drugged. I heard sometimes they hunt in pairs." Caleb set out a giant box of fries and grabbed the ketchup. "Did you check to see if there was a second?"

"I assumed there was only one." John set his sandwich down, a crease in his brow the only sign of emotion on his face. Dean looked away. That crease was the equal of a half-hour tirade from Sam. Dad was upset. He'd probably crawl into a bottled when this was over, but not now. Now there was work to do.

"How long ago? Where?"

"A park by the highway. I know where it is. I can get you there, but it'll be swarming with local law enforcement."

"We've got FBI badges."

"They know me. Dean too." Caleb continued to eat his burger, unhurried. If the child was dead, there was nothing they could do. If the vetala stored its food, another ten minutes wouldn't make a difference. Slow reflexes due to low blood sugar could turn victory into disaster.

"Do you think this is a set up to distract us so that Strickler has a clear shot at Sam?"

John shook his head. "No. He doesn't know anything about monsters. This is coincidence. Nothing more."

Dean nodded. Dad's logic was always sound. The certainty in his father's voice never failed to settle his nerves. It was better than a shot of whiskey. But Dad didn't always think of everything.

"You know the kind of luck we have. You know if we hunt this thing, that's when Strickler will strike."

"Sam knows there's a hunt in town. He should know to lie low."

Dean raised his eyebrows, a silent reminder that Sam rarely did what he should do.

John look away for a moment. "Right."

Winchester luck dictated that Strickler would strike now, just when their forces were split. Dean waited. He wanted his brother at his side, safely within sight and armed to the teeth. Not sitting bait in an FBI trap. He also wanted to be at Dad's back. In John Winchester's shadow, Dean felt like he could do anything. Together, they were invincible.

John gestured to Caleb. "Give me that number, the one Strickler used to call you."

Caleb handed over his phone.

"What are you thinking?"

John's eyes were green in the light of the cell phone screen. "I think the man who tried to kill my son needs to know what he's gotten himself into."

Dean nodded. A threat and a show of force would make Strickler think twice about trying anything too soon. He would take a step back to re-assess the new threat, and give John and Dean the time they needed to take down the vetala.

000

Harold Strickler was packing his bags. He had spent three days eating delivery and watching TV. He hadn't set a toe outside his room in all that time. With Feds crawling all over town, and his face plastered over every TV screen, he didn't have much choice. Things ought to have cooled off by now. The news casters had moved on to other stories.

A child had been abducted. No one would be looking for him anymore. It was the prefect time to make his get away.

Home.

It had been a long time since Harold had done this kind of work. The gun had felt familiar in his hand. His aim hadn't wavered a bit. The adrenaline had a carried his out-of-practice muscles through the fight, and the flight away from the brother who burst out of nowhere to save Sam Winchester.

Then, the waiting. A room full of empty space and time to think of all he had left behind, all he had gained, and all he stood to lose.

Home. It wasn't much by Uncle Tommy's standards. Just at cramped three-bedroom house, home to two unruly kids, one small dog, and a woman who loved him. His job paid the bills, and no fear of arrest or death chased through his dreams.

It was worth keeping. Harold had loved his brother. But Gene was gone. Harold had his own life to live.

Sam Winchester could die another day. In a year, or a decade, Harold could pull out his tool box again, track the kid down, and put a bullet in his brain when he wasn't expecting it. There was no time limit on this.

The phone rang. Harold stared at the number. It was one he did not recognize. Reflex told him not to answer. There could only be trouble on the other end of the line.

He punched the talk button. A gravelly voice met his greeting, stern as steel and uncompromising. Harold had been in the business a long time. He knew that tone.

"This is John Winchester. I hear you tried to kill my son. That makes you a dead man. You may be breathing for the moment, but make no mistake, you are dead. I will hunt you. From this moment on, I will do nothing else. It might be an hour from now, it might be a day. It won't be more than a week. When I get close enough, I will make you bleed. When you lie in a pool of your own bodily fluids, I will make you scream. When your voice is raw and you can't cry anymore, I will make you hurt like no human has hurt before. I will pull your entrails out while you watch and scatter them in the mud. I will tear you apart one small piece at a time. There will be nothing left of you but a pile of flesh. This is not a threat, this is a fact. I will see you soon."

The line went dead.

Strickler had heard a lot of threats in his life. He had given out his fair share. He knew when someone was bluffing, boasting, faking.

He knew the real deal. John Winchester would and could do everything he promised and more.

Harold Strickler could not go home. He could not wait for another day. He had to end this now.

Click. Creaaaak.

Strickler spun, gun in hand, to face the sound of the door opening behind him. The delivery boy stood there with a bag of steaming Chinese food and a feral grin on his face. He could only be sixteen, not yet old enough to shave, barely old enough to drive. His stained t-shirt boasted a colorful collection of Marvel comic heroes, and bits of cash tops stuck out of his jeans pockets. It was the style of the kid who skated through school and didn't aspire to much more than a lifetime of delivery jobs. The twisted grin boasted pure evil more at home in the shadows of a horror film.

"It's you're lucky day, boy!" His eyes were black. No whites, no color, solid black from eyelid to eyelid.

"What the hell happened to you?" Harold didn't lower his gun. The delivery boy should not have entered without knocking. Should not have been able to enter the locked door. Should not have those eyes.

"Hell is exactly what happened to me!" The grin broadened. The kid opened the bag and sniffed. "Mm. You do miss food down there. All they serve is entrails and brains…but you've heard enough about that for today." He tossed the bag of food aside. "I've got something better to offer you."

"Offer me?" Strickler took a step back as the kid took a step forward.

"Sure. You know, usually we wait for the soul to approach us. Most people have to dig in the dirt or paint diagrams in blood to summon one of us and get an offer like this. You're special. Well, you're hunting someone special."

"Look, kid, just leave my food and go." Strickler held out a twenty. "Keep the change and take your crazy with you."

The kid's eyes flicked down to the money, then back up to Strickler. "I see you need a demonstration." He flicked his wrist like a magician missing his wand.

Strickler's gun sprang out of his hand and smashed against the wall. Nothing touched it. The kid stood three feet away. He grinned again, and made a spinning gesture with his finger. The gun spun like a Wheel of Fortune, clacking against the wall.

"What are you?"

"I think 'demon' is the word you're looking for. Don't worry, I'm not here to kill you." The gun floated across the room and landed back in Strickler's hand. He closed his fist around it, determined not to lose his grip again.

"Demon's aren't real."

"Oh? How else do you explain this?" He batted his black eyes.

The gun could be a magician's trick. It was the eyes that made Strickler's blood run cold. Those eyes were impossible. "Why are you here?"

The delivery boy grinned again. "I'm here to make a deal with you."

000

Quiet. It was too quiet. There was nothing to do in the small house, and nowhere to go. Jenna paced the living room, pausing every now and then to look longingly out a window. Mom was spread out on the couch, reading a book. There was no distraction, nothing to take Jessica's mind off of her spiraling thoughts.

She held the FBI file in her lap. She had read the contents multiple times, and kept circling back to the same conclusion.

Gank a ghoul. There's a vampire in Lakeport. The words echoed in her head.

Monsters aren't real. Ghosts aren't real. Before today, she would never have given the thought a second glance. Now, she couldn't let it go. A comment overheard in the dark. Her sister's glib remark. How easy, for a sane person to suddenly start believing. All it took was a hint left behind in unexplained evidence.

Sam's Dad hunts monsters.

It was too crazy to say out loud. Jessica closed her eyes, but the thought wouldn't budge. It sat like a boulder atop the scaffolding of logic upon which she built her understanding of the world. Monsters and reality. They could not co-exist.

So, how to know for sure?

She pulled her pencil across the notepaper clipped to the top of the file. It was her own list, compiled from her online research. Ghouls and vampires were just a few of the many, many paranormal creatures that filled folklore and that some people-some-believed in. The most common was ghosts.

It was time to get answers. Jessica picked up the landline phone and tucked herself back in her room.

Jessica had copied the contact list in Sam's phone months ago. She'd had noticed the names, then. Dean. Dad. She had made sure to save them for a later date. Just in case. Even then, she had been curious.

She dialed the first number.

"This is Dean." A car engine grumbled in the background, then went quiet and the door creaked open. "Is this an emergency?"

"Yes! I think—I think there's a ghost in my house."

"That's a problem, not an emergency." The voice went dim for a moment. Dean held the phone away from his mouth, talking to someone else. "Yeah, Dad. This is the place Sammy described. I gotta finish this call, sounds like a new hunt." Pause. "Yes, I know we're already on a hunt, but she could be in danger. Let me ask a few questions, we can wait five minutes to gank this vetala." Pause. "Yes, I know there are people in danger here, but this girl could be-"

Jessica strained, but she couldn't her the other voice. Finally, Dean said "Five minutes, tops. I'll be in position in ten." The voice came back at regular volume. "Look, I'm a little busy. Are you in danger?"

"It's really scary! I think there's a dead person's spirit living in my bedroom."

"That's not the question. Is it trying to kill you right this minute?"

"Well, no."

"Then it's not an emergency."

There was a distant bang, so loud it made Jessica flinch. She'd heard that sound before, at the gun range. "What was that?"

"Nothing you need to worry about. Call me back in-" He stopped, listening to something else. Jessica vaguely heard a distant shout and running footsteps. He must have the phone on speaker. Then Dean was muttering. "Dad, you were supposed to wait for me! What spooked it? Yeah." Then a shout. "Yeah, Dad I see it!" Muttering again. "Running, great. I hate running-Hey! That's my car! Oh no you don't!"

There followed a clatter. The phone had been dropped. An engine revved, and then there was a hollow thump, the sound of flesh hitting metal.

Jessica listened, heart in her throat. Dad said Sam had spent some time with his brother, these past few days. Was Sam there now? The sound of flesh hitting flesh, flesh hitting metal, groans of pain and a shrill squeal.

"You have to get it in the heart, Dean!" The tone was gruff and distant, but there was no mistaking the words. "Don't let it bite, they're venomous."

A loud crunch, and then the new voice was talking into the phone. "This is John, Dean's father. Who is this?"

Their dad? When did he get to town?

"I—" Jess grabbed at her scattered thoughts. "No one you know. A friend gave me this number when I started seeing-" Jessica glanced at the list she'd made up. Cold spots. Weird noises. "This thing in my bedroom, and it got all cold-"

"Anyone dead yet?"

"Um, no."

"Anyone hurt?"

"No."

"Is it telekinetic? Moving things around? Shaking the bed, making noise?"

"Yeah. Yeah, that's what it's doing."

"You haven't got much time before it gets more active. I'm going to give you another number. Dean's busy right now." There was another gunshot. John yelled, "Caleb! Over here!"

Jessica was curled around the phone, every muscle tense. She didn't know if ears could work harder to hear better, but she did her best. Was Sam there? Would his family be alright? It sounded like they were fighting someone-something.

John roared. "You! Get off my son! Dean!" There was another gunshot. Then John's voice bellowed at the phone. "555-324-1237. Ask for Jim, he can help you. We're busy."

The line went dead.

Jessica felt her entire body shaking. She wasn't sure what she had just heard. Gunshots. Screams. It sounded awful. It sounded-unreal. But reality was shifting around her. The world she thought she new was changing.

Jessica dialed again. Her heart hammered in her chest. Didn't know what to expect when the ringing stopped. The soundtrack of a haunted house special effects.

A friendly female voice, full of sunshine, answered. "St. Paul's Catholic Church of Blue Earth, Minnesota. How can I help you?"

"Can I speak with Jim?"

"I can transfer you now." The phone clicked, and a gentle, male voice came on the line.

"Pastor Jim. How can I help you?"

A priest. It made an odd sort of sense. "I-I have some questions."

"Many people have questions about God, miss."

"No. I don't have questions about God I-I have questions about ghosts. Ghouls. Vampires. Vetala." Her list of strange things was growing longer. "John Winchester said I should call you."

The tone changed. "Ah. That kind of question. What would you like to know?"

Jessica took in a deep breath. "Everything."

000

Civilians. No matter how many years Henricksen spent in law enforcement, he continued to be stunned by their collective ignorance. The receptionist at the front desk had noticed nothing of the exchange between the FBI agent and Sam. The forensics lab rat walking past didn't give them a second glance, didn't notice the steam that Henricksen was certain must be pouring out of his ears by now.

He had always noticed the details, even before the FBI had trained him to see his surroundings in a new light. Always, he was on guard for threats, watching people to see how they handled a situation, homing in on details of his surroundings as they shifted. In the middle of a crisis, it saved lives. In every day life, it drove his wife to distraction.

Victor could never be two feet from a heated argument and not notice at thing. Yet the Sheriff's office remained peaceful. No one said a word, no one stared. They went about their business as usual. All those trained for hostile situations were gone, searching for a missing child.

Henricksen turned to the receptionist. She might have the Sheriff's cell phone number, or some other way to contact him. She had her nose in a book, a smutty romance novle, judging from the barely-fit-for-the-public cover.

A teenager pushed through the glass front doors, a wad of bubble-gum bouncing between her teeth as she talked. "Hellooooo! Hey! You're that FBI agent! Awesome. I saw that reward thing on TV. You know, a thousand dollars for information that leads to the arrest of…some guy."

The receptionist glanced up, saw the Henricksen was within earshot and didn't need to be paged, and returned to her book..

Henricksen rolled his eyes. Fine. He shot Sam a look to tell him this conversation was not over, and moved forward to deal with the teenager. She didn't look like a very intelligent informant, but a witness didn't have to be clever to be useful. They just had to be in the right place at the right time.

"Yeah, I'm Victor Henricksen, agent in charge. You have information?"

"Well." She blew a pink bubble and twirled her hair. "Maybe. I mean, it's kind of weird Does weird count?"

Henricksen forced a smile. "Yea, weird might count."

"So, do you have the money here?"

"Look, little lady, you don't get paid until we get the guy. If the information you have helps, you get the money. If it doesn't, you don't. If you don't tell me what you know, I arrest you right now for obstruction."

The girl's mouth hung open for a moment. She swallowed, then coughed, choking on her gum. "Aw, shoot. Look what you made me do."

"So, what's 'weird' that you need to tell me about?"

"Well." She looked sideways at Henricksen. He raised his eyebrows expectantly. "This guy checked into the hotel where I work a few days ago. Like, maybe, the day they shot the Sheriff's house. Anyway, he doesn't come out. He orders delivery for every meal, and he ordered delivery from the pharmacy, too. And, if this were some kind of Tom Cruise movie, that's what he would do. You know, if this was Mission Impossible and he had to hide from the bad guys, he'd hole up somewhere for a few days and all of the staff would be like, 'that's a weird guy'. You know?"

"Tom Cruise is the good guy. We are looking for a very bad man. Did anyone try to go into the room or find out more information?"

The girl shook her head. "No. He won't even let the maids in. Do you think he'd hot, like Tom Cruise?"

"I think he's dangerous, and you need to stay away from him. I'll take your name down for the reward. Which hotel, and what room number?"

"Holiday Inn, room 335."

"Right." Henricksen grabbed pen and paper from the front desk. The receptionist didn't even look up when he stole her stuff. "When did he last order a meal?"

The girl scrunched up her nose and blew another bubble. "I saw Andy delivering some Chinese for lunch about an hour ago. But, he didn't come back down." Her eyes grew wide. "You don't think he's in trouble, do you?"

"Let's hope not. Can you go tell your boss that an FBI strike team is on the way, and to clear that floor of the hotel of any guests and staff?"

"Uh-" The girl's mouth hung open like a fish out of water.

"Never mind. Go home, kid." Henricksen pulled out his phone to call his team back. He had sent them out to track leads. Nobody thought Strickler would be dumb enough to attack the Sheriff's Dept. offices. As long as they were in this building, Sam was safe.

By the time he put his phone away again, he knew something was off. There was a detail missing, nagging him like a fat fly buzzing round his ears. He searched the nearly-empty Sheriff's station with his eyes. Nothing out of place. Nobody there. No sign of Sam Winchester, but the door to the weapons locker was hanging open.

A young man barely out of his teens, trained to kill, fueled by anger, fear and adrenaline. Henricksen balled his hand into a fist and slammed it into the desk. This was a disaster waiting to happen.

00

 **Note** : Please review! I love hearing from you.


	19. Into the Storm

**NOTE:** Thank you for reading. Special thanks to all of my reviewers. So glad you've stuck with it so far. I'm amazed at where this story has gone.

 **Chapter 19: Into the Storm**

Storm clouds brewed in the sky. A cluster of black shadows, crackling with lightning grew and expanded at an alarming rate. They blotted out the mid-day sun, tinting the empty parking lot in a sickly shade of green.

Sam didn't look up. He didn't care about the weather, or the warning rumble of thunder high above. He gripped his shotgun tight. The cold steel felt good in his hand, like a missing limb that had finally been restored. He had picked the lock and taken it from the Sheriff's store room without a second thought.

Thought was not driving his actions anymore. The time for thought was long past. Something else was driving Sam now. White heat flooded his body and propelled him forward with a determined calm he had felt only once before: the night he had left home for Stanford.

He had known only one thing, in the middle of that fight with Dad. I can't live like this. It was the calm center at the eye of the storm, the one certainty that drove every action.

I can't live like this. Trapped by protection, hunted by an unknown force, separated from everything he cared about.

It has to end.

That one thought drove him now, to the gun stash, out the door, and to his car-

Sam stopped on the edge of the sidewalk, one foot hanging mid-step, staring at the parking lot. He didn't have his car. The FBI agent on guard duty had driven him to work that morning. His car was parked safely back at the apartment.

Higher brain functions began to kick in again. Logic gears slowly churned, spitting out a more reasonable course of action.

Sam reached into his pocket and pulled out his phone. "Dean." It had been so long since he'd been able to call for his big brother's help, he had forgotten it was even an option.

Dean's voice cheerful. Always, Dean was cheerful. Even in the middle of a bloodbath, he could crack a joke. Sam didn't know how his brother did it.

"Hey! I'm getting ready to roast some hot dogs. Your tip panned out. No dead bodies except one. Time for my favorite part, salt and burn. You bringing some marshmallows?"

"Glad everyone is safe." Sam's voice sounded dead, even to his own ears. He should be happy that the child and the pregnant woman were safe. But he didn't care.

"Sam? What's going on?" Dean's tone held a warning that if Sam didn't talk, the answer would be beaten out of him shortly.

"I need you at the Sheriff's office. Now. I know where Strickler is. At least, I have a good idea. I'm going to end this."

"Whoa, Sammy! Hold on. We need a strategy. This guy took down me and Caleb."

"That's because he was ready for you. This time, I'll be ready for him. Come get me, Dean, or I'm going in alone."

"I don't like leaving this body behind." Sam heard the Impala's engine turn over. "I'm coming, don't go anywhere without me."

The glass doors behind him banged open. "Winchester! What do you think you're doing?"

Sam started walking. He didn't bother to look back at Henricksen. There wasn't any point. "Hurry, Dean. The FBI have the address, too. I don't want them to get there first and botch this up."

"Winchester! You stop right there. This is a matter for the FBI. If you kill Harold Strickler, I will arrest you."

Sam kept walking. Henricksen's voice was white noise, blending with the wind and thunder. He would deal with the consequences later. His life here was falling apart one way or the other. Sam would rather tear it down himself than watch someone else destroy everything he had worked for.

000

Dean had spent his entire life chasing after Sam. When Sam started to take crawl, Dean chased after him to keep him from putting dirty things off the floor I his mouth. When Sam learned to run, and started playing soccer, Dean chased after him with a bag of gear and Gatorade. When Sam became angry, and ran away, Dean chased every lead until he found his brother again. When Sam left for Stanford after the argument with Dad, Dean chased him out the door to say good-bye.

Since he was four years old, Dean could barely remember a day when he wasn't chasing after his little brother. So when Sam called, he covered the dead vetala with a blanket, pocketed his lighter, and want to find his brother.

Sam's tone scared him.

These past few days, Dean had seen a side of Sam that had slowly faded that last year before Sam left. Anger and bitterness had been brewing long before that fateful fight. The happy kid who liked to read and run had been gone long before that final fight. Dean hadn't thought he would see him again, but here he was.

It almost made the empty car and the lonely nights worth it, to know that Sam could be happy again, could be himself again, instead of an angry shadow of their father. They were so alike in their determined obsession. Dad knew how to channel his anger, know how to pick up the pieces when he crossed the line.

Sam didn't. He was plunging head-first toward a line he would forever regret crossing. And Dean was chasing him, racing him, hoping to get there first and do the deed himself. Him or Dad.

A quick call and Dad and Caleb were on their way, too. All Dean had to do was slow Sam down, hold him back, and let older men who already had blood on their hands do the dirty work.

He didn't think anything of the storm rolling through the sky ahead. He had seen its like many times before, in Kansas or Nebraksa. He didn't know how out of place it was here. He didn't see any sinister purpose in the lighting that chased him across town. He had one goal, and one goal only.

He caught up with Sam about a mile from the Sheriff's station. Sam was walking, heedless of the rain, face set in a grim mask. Dean threw the door open. "You're gonna get there real fast at this rate."

Sam ducked into the passenger seat, a shotgun cradled in his lap. "Let's go."

Dean pulled forward slowly. He had to drive carefully anyway, in this storm. Street lights flickered all around, and fog swirled across the road. There was something not right about this storm. Dean frowned at the windshield. "Is this kind of thing normal out here?"

Sam squinted at the rain. "No, actually. It's really weird, now that you mention it." He turned back to Dean. "When did Dad get to town?"

Dean shrugged. "A few days ago. He and Caleb took the victims to the hospital. They're on their way now."

Sam cocked his head, and ran his finger over the red splatter that now decorated the bench seat. "What happened here?" He flicked a finger at a pair of wires dangling from the dash.

Now it was Dean's turn to glare. "Vetala tried to hot-wire my car. My car!

"Huh." Sam's lips twitched involuntarily, and the tension in his face eased.

Good.

Sam leaned forward impatiently. "Come on, Dean, we're going, what, ten miles an hour?"

Dean glanced at the speedometer. "Yep."

"Go faster! We need to catch this guy before he moves."

"He's been lying low in a hotel for three days. We've got a few extra minutes."

"No, we don't! At this rate, I'll get there faster by walking." Sam pulled at the door handle. The door didn't budge. He glared at Dean. "Hey!"

"You are not going anywhere until you calm down, and Dad's in position." Dean had thrown the child lock before he left, just in case. John had installed a special set for the front seat after a wrestling match between Sam and Dean nearly sent them both spilling out the door and into traffic.

"This guy took down me and Caleb, and that ain't easy. We go in with numbers, and we go in smart, or you don't go in at all. Got it?"

Sam let out a huff and his grip on the shotgun tightened, but he nodded.

"Good." Dean looked back at the road and slammed on the brakes. A man stood in the center of their lane, blocking the way. Dean recognized the face, recognized the over-sized shot-gun in his hand. His ribs ached at the memory of the bean bag rounds. He still had the bruises, they were just beginning to turn green.

Dean pressed the gas pedal to the floor and wrenched the steering wheel to go around. Tires squealed on pavement, but the car didn't move. Streetlights flickered and the smell of rotting eggs rolled through the air.

"What's going on? Dean?" Sam's eyes flew from the man in the road to his brother and back again. The man marched forward, bean-bag gun raised.

"That's him. That's the man who wants to kill you." Dean went to reach for his gun, but his arms wouldn't move. They slammed back into the seat. Pinned by invisible glue. Dean didn't know of any monster with that ability. He couldn't move.

Sam raised his gun, but it flew from his hands and crashed against the back window. There was a click, and the passenger door swung open on its own.

"Time to end this, Winchester. Just you and me." Strickler was still marching toward them with murder in his eyes.

The sound of hands clapping cut into the moment. A teenager stepped out of the fog and sat cross-legged on the sidewalk, cackling gleefully. "Oh, I do love a good show. It's almost as delicious as a good deal. Well, Sammy! Let's see what you've got."

Sam glared, the fire back in his eyes. He pulled a knife from Dean's pocket and slid out of the seat into the storm.

"No! Sam!" Dean's shout was lost somewhere in the wind and the rain. "Sam, watch out! His gun is loaded with-"

 _Bang! Bang_!

Strickler fired twice, catching Sam in the hip and shoulder. Sam staggered and dropped to one knee. Strickler raised the rifle high, the butt aimed at the base of Sam's head. Sam flung out his arm to knock the gun out of the way. Strickler's other had whipped to his side to pull out a short iron bar with a round, weighted end. A sap. Dean closed his eyes. If Sam took a hit with that, it would break bone. Sam lunged with his knife, and Strickler moved back to dodge. Sam staggered, and stepped back, his body braced against the pain. Dean knew how much those bean bag rounds hurt. The injuries weren't fatal, but they would slow his reflexes and drain his endurance like a sieve.

"Dad, get here soon. Please get here soon," Dean muttered, straining with all his might against the demon's psychic hold on his body. He couldn't move. All he could do was watch as Strickler adjusted the grip on the sap and swung again.

000

Thirty years. That was how long Brian Moore had spent in law enforcement. First, he worked the dispatch desk. When an opening came up, he applied for deputy. When the old sheriff retired, he ran in the election to take his place. Ten years as Sheriff, sixteen as a deputy, four as support staff. Brian was nearing the end of his career. He had begun to think about retirement, slowing down. He had seen and done it all, and it was time to focus on something new. Lake county held no more surprises for him.

Until today. Until a woman abducted and tried to eat two victims. The proof was in the bite marks on their necks. Brian knew crazy things happened in big cities. He had a vague idea, from TV mostly, about the really weird cases people like Agent Henricksen worked on a regular basis. But there weren't supposed to happen here, in his home.

When they did happen, the victims weren't miraculously rescued by a bearded man in a giant black truck.

Lighting cracked outside the window, throwing everything into sharp detail for a moment before allowing the shadows to settle again. The storm raging outside, the way it had blown in out of nowhere, provided the perfect backdrop to the story Brian heard from the hospital staff.

They had called him twenty minutes ago to interview the hostages. Everyone had the same, impossible story.

"She was drinking me! Like my little sister with her sippy cup, just sucking and sucking and I got all dizzy and…" Nat Dooley flopped his head sideways in demonstration. "I passed out. When I woke up, there were these guys. They had guns, and they chased her away. I don't know if they killed her, but the big one came back and put us in his truck. He was pretty nice, really. Brought us here. Even called my mom."

Nat's mother had both arms wrapped around him, and a look that said she might never let go again. She nodded. "Yes, Sheriff. I got a call, but the number was blocked. The man just said my son was safe, and I should come to the hospital."

Brian sat back to ponder this. The other victim had said the same thing. A woman had sucked the blood out of her. A woman with strange teeth, who was twice as strong as she ought to be. Then, three man had come to save them, piled them into a giant black truck, and dropped them at the hospital.

The man and his truck were gone. No one had gotten a license plate, or a name.

"Sheriff." A nurse beckoned him into the hallway, a piece of notebook paper in hand. "I've got a message for you, from an FBI agent. He sounded really angry." She paused, and shifted uncomfortably. "He said they got a possible location on the 'perp.'" Her fingers curled in a set of air quotes. "And Sam is gone. The address is here."

Brian held out his hand for the note, and she handed it over, biting her lip. He sent her off with a thank you and a smile.

Possible location. Sam gone.

The timing was too clever. Of all the times to lure Sam out without protection, this was it. Sam alone with Agent Henricksen. It was like pouring gasoline on the floor and lighting a match. The Sheriff hadn't thought about it, when he had a missing child to find. Now, the realization washed over him like a bucket of ice water. It reeked of conspiracy.

His heart revved. I have to find Sam. When had the gangly boy his daughter brought home become a family member in his own right? It didn't matter. It was done, and Sheriff Moore knew he would give as much to help Sam as he would either of his daughters.

Brian faced the storm outside the doors and sighed. It had been sunny when he left. He didn't even have his hat.

The last time Lake County had seen this much action was the day of the city's centennial parade. It had been a mess of traffic, illegal fireworks, illegal bonfires, and visiting marching bands. At least the weather had been nice. Brian bent his head and stepped out into the rain.

By the time he made it to his car, he was soaked through and his socked squished. The wind threatened to choke him with his own tie. The air crackled with energy. This was the sort of storm that belonged in the Midwest, the sort of storm that spawned tornadoes and floods. Not the sort of weather Lakeport usually had to worry about.

Strange. So many strange things had happened lately, Brian had stopped trying to sort them out. Move forward was all he could do. He set the wipers to swish as fast as possible, but he could still barely see through the rain. It hammered the windshield, obscuring his vision.

Not that there was much to see. Most sensible people were indoors. The road was empty, except for one car, flashing its hazard lights. A flat tire tilted the black sedan to one side. The drive burst out of the door, arms flapping to flag the Sheriff down. Agent Henricksen.

Brian put his foot on the break, but it wouldn't respond. He slid past, unable to stop. He gripped the steering wheel tight, but this didn't feel like the uncontrolled slide that usually came with a hydroplane. He simply couldn't slow down.

He drove on, weaving through the empty city streets. Until he saw another vehicle stopped. A truck this time, lying upside down across the road. He had not choice but to stop or crash into it.

Brian stomped the brakes, and this time he did stop. His chest heaved, and he realized he'd been holding his breath. Gasping, he took in the scene of the wreck.

One man sheltered under the truck bed, a shotgun pointed at the sky. Another man was walking, or else, trying to. He looked like he was on a treadmill, head bent into the wind, legs churning, feet moving forward, but then sliding backwards as soon as they hit the pavement. The man lunged forward, but the wind caught him and threw him back into the asphalt.

Brian jumped out of his car, and he could hear a string of curse words mixed with a language he didn't understand flowing from the man's mouth. He rose to his feet and tried to move forward again, only to have every step pushed back. Brian stared. He didn't think he could manage that if he tried.

"You!" The man stopped going forward and stepped sideways toward Brian. His feet stayed under him this time. "Can you get through?"

Brian walked around the truck and saw that the road ahead was clear. He came back to the big man and nodded. "Yes, I can walk. But I can't get my car around this wreck. Do you need medical assistance?"

The man tried to move forward again, and once again was stopped by-something. He howled in frustration.

"Demon work." This from the man hunched under the truck bed. Wait. Brian knew that face. Caleb. The man Sam claimed he didn't know.

What are you hiding, Sam?

"We can't get through, demons won't let us. They might let you."

They? Demons? Nothing about this day made sense anymore.

The bigger man grabbed Brian's shoulders. "Please, Sheriff. Help my son. Here." He pressed his shotgun into Brian's hand.

The set of the shoulders and a familiar gleam in his eyes sparked recognition even though they had never met before. Help my son. Sam.

"John Winchester?"

"Don't worry about me!" John shoved Brian forward. "Get to Sam!"

Brian nodded. John gave him a grateful smile, then went to hunker under the truck with Caleb. He pulled a book from his pocket and began flipping through pages, muttering in that strange language again.

Brian walked down the road, straining his eyes in the darkness. The clouds were so thick he could barely see the buildings in the street surrounding him. All he saw was asphalt, swirling fog, and rain.

Another vehicle swam into his field of vision. A black car with Kansas plates, stopped in its lane as if the driver were just on 'pause' for a moment. Brian went to the window.

Dean sat inside, the same look on his face that a weight lifter gets when bench-pressing his limit. He shoulders twitched and his muscles bulged, but there was nothing for him to be fighting against.

Just as there was nothing to stop John walking forward.

Like the brakes that hadn't worked to stop and pick up Henricksen.

"Don't stop. Go help Sam!" Dean grunted. "Black eyed bastard's got me pinned."

Brian looked up, wiping rain from his eyes, and saw three more figures just ahead.

A man with a metal rod in his hand crouched above a huddled figure with shaggy hair and a sharp nose. Brian's heart lurched, and he tasted bile rising to the back of this throat.

Sam was a mess. He lay curled in a ball, one arm pinned to his side as if broken, or cradling broken ribs. He held one leg tilted out of the way and didn't bother trying to stand because he knew it wouldn't take the weight. His blood mixed with the rain, spreading over the pavement like watercolor paint, tinting the ground red. He held one hand up to block the next blow.

Brian's gun was in his hand before he had a chance to think about it.

"Step aside! Stand down! You are under arrest!"

The short man turned, and laughed. "Not today, Sheriff. I made a deal, and I'll get what I paid for."

"Hahahahah!" The cheerful cackle echoed over the scene, shrill and out of place. Brian glanced at the third figure, a teenager with black eyes. He stared. Black eyes. No white, no color at all. Solid black.

"What was our deal again?" The kid held up his fingers, ticking off points one by one. "No help from the Feds. No help from Daddy or big brother. Hm." He tapped his chin, mocking. "No, you didn't say anything about the Sheriff."

"Why you-!" Strickler raised his hand high. Sam flinched and ducked his head. The boy on the sidewalk laughed again.

Bang! Bang! Bang!

It was easy, really. Brian had never thought it could be so easy, to kill a man. Three little twitches of his finger and it was over. He had done it at the shooting range a thousand times over the years. The paper targets had white outlines that resembled men, but never did he think he would aim his gun at a real man. It wasn't any different. In fact, it was easier. He had never needed perfect aim so badly.

Strickler's arm's flew wide, his whole body rattling with the impact of each fresh bullet. They hit center mass, one after the other. Strickler gurgled, then fell.

Thunder crashed, and for a moment, Brian thought he heard a dog howl.

"Well, that's my cue!" The teenager tipped his head back and vomited black smoke into the sky. The clouds rolled away like a curtain, taking the rain with them.

Brian lowered the gun and stepped forward to check the body. The skin was still warm to the touch, but there was no reaction, no pulse. Dead. He should feel something, some regret or revulsion, anything but this emptiness.

Behind the Sheriff, the car door opened and Dean shoved past him, dropping to his knees next to his fallen brother. Sam moaned and coughed blood. Dean had one hand on the largest wound, and with the other held his phone to his ear, calling for an ambulance. Brian could hear the sirens start in the distance before Dean even hung up. He cradled his brother's head, speaking soothingly, the tone of a mother to her infant.

"Hey, Sammy. You're gonna be okay. I've got you, Sam. I've got you."

000

 **Note:** Whew! That scene has been sitting in the back of mind, waiting to be written since chapter three. What did you think? Please review!

Never fear, we've got plenty more story to come. A hurt Sam, some strong painkillers, and two family's collide.


	20. While You Were Sleeping

**Dear Reader** : Thanks so much for sticking with this story. We have a little further to go before I wrap things up. I have really enjoyed writing this and I think these next few chapters will be really rewarding as I begin to tie things up. Thanks for reading!

 **Chapter 20: While you were sleeping**

Chlorine. White sheets. Shiny tile flooring. A maze of plastic tubing. Everything about the hospital room felt cold and cheerless.

Jessica shivered and wrapped the blanket tighter around her shoulders. Winnie-the-Pooh and friends frolicked across the thinning threads. The blanket was twenty years old, a consolation present she'd received when Jenna was born and Jessica no longer received Mom and Dad's undivided attention. It had comforted her when her baby sister's hungry wails pierced the night. It had seen her safely through many a slumber party. When she had packed her things for college, she couldn't bear to part with it.

Now, Pooh encircled her as she sat, curled in a stiff hospital chair pulled as close to Sam's bed as she could get it without disrupting the delicate balance of the medical hardware keeping him alive.

He was so pale. She hadn't seen him when they brought him in, but she had heard the doctor's report. Severe bruising, some of it bone-deep. Fractures in his shoulder and ribs. A punctured lung. There was a plastic tube sticking out of his throat, which was part of the reason he still slept even after twelve hours in the hospital. He was sedated, both for pain and to keep him from fighting against the tubing. He wouldn't wake until the doctors wanted him to.

Jessica's eyes drifted to the window, and the pile of salt that lay across the sill. They moved across the room to the giant star painted on a mat across the door. The nurses had thrown a fit when Sam's dad tried to paint it on the floor. They hadn't been happy about the ratty old rug he'd found at a second-hand store, but since he wasn't defacing hospital property, they didn't stop him placing it here.

Devil's trap. Jessica identified the design from her internet searches.

John Winchester sat on the other side of the bed, a sawed-off shotgun in one hand. He had brought it in hidden under his coat, and he tucked it away whenever a nurse came to the door.

Dean hovered in the hallway, along with Caleb and Pastor Jim, whose plane had arrived two hours ago. The ICU limited in-room visitors to two, so they were taking turns, sleeping in shifts and sitting guard over Sam with shot-guns. They knew that Strickler was dead, but that didn't seem to matter. They were scared of something else.

Demons.

"You really believe in all this stuff?" Jessica gestured to the devil's trap and the salt.

"Sam didn't want you to know." John rested a hand on his son's shoulder, his forehead creased with worry. He was a big man. Not fat, but thick and solid. He knew how to fill a room with his presence. One look from him sent the nurses scurrying. He'd called them three times to check on slight changes in Sam's vital signs, displayed on the computer monitors by his head. They hadn't complained once, even though they assured him that there was nothing out of the ordinary.

Ordinary. That word seemed like a distant memory, a world that had existed yesterday, but had been smashed to pieces by the harsh reality of today.

"How do you know it's real?"

"I've seen it." John's dark eyes met hers, steady and without doubt. "A monster killed my wife when Sam was just six months old. It happened in his nursery. I went looking for answers, and I found them."

He paused, watching her closely. Waiting to see if she would ask him to continue. There was a warning in his tone. How much did she really want to know?

"Why did Sam leave?"

"He doesn't like monsters." John sighed and ran a hand over his beard. "He doesn't like killing. That's what I do, kill the evil things in the world. Sam doesn't want anything to do with that. He wants a normal life, a home, peace. Sam left because he didn't want to kill anymore."

"Why don't you two talk?"

"We had a bad fight. I didn't want him to leave. I tried to make him stop by telling him that he had to choose all or nothing. If he left, he couldn't come home again." John bent his head, eyes fixed on Sam's still face. "It didn't work. He left anyway. After that-well."

He's just as stubborn as you. She'd known him less than a day, but she could already see the likeness in more than just looks. Sam had his father's height and strong shoulders, but he also had his intonation, the same quirk of the head when he was curious, the same crease between the eyes when he was worried.

Did they share the same taste in food? Sam had asked her for some odd dishes, once or twice.

"So, why did you put marshmallow fluff in macaroni and cheese?"

"What?" A hint of a chuckle escaped John's throat and he shook his head. "That was not me. I was gone a lot when Sam was small, too much. Dean did most of the cooking. They went through this phase where they came up with some pretty interesting things. I think Dean was bored. That, and we didn't often have a stove so he had to make dinner with nothing but a microwave and a hot plate."

"I can work wonders with a microwave and a hot plate. Your aunt Rita, though, she can work wonders with pasta and cream. Mmm." Dean sauntered into the room, mouth full, two bowls of casserole in his hand. He put one his father's lap, and motioned Jess toward the hallway. "I think you'd better go out there and eat, or else you're mother is going to try to feed this to you with an IV."

Jess's mouth was already watering at the scent of the casserole. Leave it to Aunt Rita to start the parade of covered dishes that inevitably followed a birth, death, illness, or other family milestone.

Jessica took Sam's hand in hers for a moment, then draped her Winnie-the-Pooh blanket over his torso. Just in case he woke up, and felt as unhappy in the cold place as she did. "I'll be back."

Dean settled in her place next to Sam. He, too, had a shotgun stuffed in his coat.

In the hallway, Sandy dished up casserole for the gathered company: Caleb, the gun-runner and Jim, the priest. They made an odd pair, but seemed comfortable in each other's presence. Like old friends. Jessica sniffed at the pile of noodles, cream, and peas, recognizing Aunt Rita's handy-work. There was probably a team of aunts and cousins gathered right now, chopping, sautéing, and baking filling things. They had a month of casseroles to look forward to. Family had a way of being there, even when you didn't see them.

000

Cold. It filled the air, along with the scent of embalming fluid and dried blood. Sheriff Moore suppressed a shiver, and pulled his jacket tighter. In sunny, warm Lakeport, the morgue had always been the coldest place in town, even in January.

Brian had been in this room many times over the years. Usually, he was escorting next-of-kin when they came to identify someone who died in a car crash or boating accident. There hadn't been a murder in town for over ten years. Now, there were two bodies stretched out on metal tables. Brian stared at Strickler's dead face, grateful that the eyes had been closed. The three bullets holes in his chest were just small red dots. Brian's finger itched at the memory of pulling that trigger. The body was covered with other marks, too, bruising and a deep gash on his arm. Sam had put up quite a fight.

"Sir, what I wanted to show you, it's over here." The coroner, a woman with graying hair in a white lab coat, pulled on a pair of gloves and pulled back the cloth covering the other body. "This is the corpse Miss Bethel found at the Porn Shack."

"Porn Shack?" Brian raised his eyebrows.

"Yes, sir, that old shack off the highway where Deputy Mann-"

Brian held up his hand. "Yes, I know. How did you find out about that?"

The coroner smirked. "It's all over town, Sheriff. Deputy Mann's girlfriend was out there, and she found this." She gestured at the body on the table. It appeared to be a woman in her twenties, with a stab wound in her heart. Except that, according to the call that had brought Brian down here in the first place, it wasn't human.

The coroner pulled back a flap of skin at an incision in the neck and tapped a small green blob near an artery. "This is a gland I have never seen before. It simply doesn't exist within human physiology." She release the flap of skin and moved to the mouth, pulling back the lips to reveal a set of incisors that looked more like they belonged on a shark than a human. "These are not human teeth. I pulled one and ran a series of diagnostics. It doesn't have the same composition as a human tooth. Stronger, different enamel. I tested her blood, it's not human either."

Brian stared at the body. Yesterday, he would have had a string of protests against the obvious conclusion here. The woman could have filed her teeth. He didn't know anything about glands, but he knew some people were into strange surgeries that made them appear more animal-like. Yesterday, he would have tried to rationalize it away.

That was before he had seen a storm blow in out of nowhere. A storm the weather man confirmed shouldn't have been able to happen. Before he had seen a man walking against the wind, held in place by an invisible hand. Before he had seen a teenager with black eyes vomit smoke.

Something was happening in Lake County that lay outside of Sheriff Moore's understanding of the world. "Not human."

"Yes, sir. I thought you should know. Before I write up my official report, which will include none of this."

Brian nodded. "Of course. The county will pay to dispose of the body."

"Actually, someone has already claimed her. Jim Murphy. He'll be here to pick her up by the end of the day."

"Actually, he's here now." The young man working the front desk poked his head in through the door. "Are you done with her?"

The coroner nodded. "Sheriff? Any objections?"

Jim. That was the name of Sam's friend, the new one who had shown up at the hospital to wait with the family.

Brian looked up to see a tall man with kind eyes in the doorway. He stood in a relaxed pose, but the muscles under his shirt were corded from use. The white priest's collar stood out in contrast to the knife Brian's practiced eye could tell was tucked into his coat.

"No, no objection."

Pastor Jim tilted his head. This was a man who heard beyond words, to the unspoken things beneath. "You look like a man with questions. People often talk with me when they have questions of a certain nature."

Brian looked from the not-quite-a-woman to the priest and back again. There was something about that white collar. It promised comfort and confidentiality. Jim's tone was soft, his posture non-threatening, welcoming confidence. If Brian could talk to anyone about the impossible things he had seen, it would be this man. There was security in speaking to a stranger. If the man laughed, he would never have to see him again. If he accepted the impossible as reality… Brian shivered. This room was too cold.

"I don't even know where to begin."

"Well, Sheriff, if you give me a hand getting this," Jim nodded to the corpse, "To my car, I'll buy you a cup of coffee. You look like you could use something to warm you up."

Somehow, Brian didn't think what the priest had to tell him would be warm or comforting.

000

Blood. John was used to the sight of it. Red and warm or black and dried, he had seen more than his fair share. First in Vietnam, where half of the men he'd served with had never come home. Later, dripping from Mary's open belly into Sam's crib. After that, he'd bathed in blood. Black dogs, werewolves, sirens, Doc Benton, the list was too long to remember. Only half of the blood he'd spilled had been recorded in the journal he kept. That didn't begin to chronicle the blood of the innocent, of the victims he'd saved, or been to late to save.

John was used to the sight of blood. He was used to the sight of pain. But he could never get used to the sight of his son's blood. It was different, somehow. The color was brighter, the smell stronger. He'd come running, as soon as the storm loosed its grip, to find Dean cradling Sam. For one terrible moment, John had feared the worst.

It was the blood that told him Sam was still alive. If his heart wasn't pumping, the blood wouldn't flow so fast. A sharp pain filled John's chest, an echo of the pain etched in every line of Sam's tense form.

Now the blood was gone, cleaned away and replaced by white bandages. His face was relaxed, the pain numbed by heavy-duty narcotics. The doctor had come in to remove the tube an hour ago, and the sedatives had been dialed down. Sam would wake up soon.

John clasped his hands together, staring at the Winnie-the-Pooh blanket draped over Sam's chest. It was better than staring at the girl, the kind blonde with stern eyes who had refused to be dislodged from Sam's side except when her mother demanded she eat. Cookies and cartoons, it was a potent combination.

They had traded few words over the silent hours of waiting. There was so much to say. Her eyes begged all kinds of questions, from the barely-concealed shotgun to his scruffy beard and calloused hands. Her wondering was written across her face, but she was too polite to ask what kind of man John was, why he carried a gun, or what had scarred him so.

He could feel the weight of those scars written on his face. Mary's death and everything that had happened since seemed like a raw and bleeding wound that everyone should be able to see. Most didn't, but John had the feeling this girl did. Whether Sam had told her the details or not, she saw John for what he was; a wounded man trying to find his way in a world suddenly gone dark. He felt small under her penetrating gaze.

This was his chance. Sam was quiet, they were alone. John had the chance to find out about the woman who had wrapped up his son's heart. The silence hung between them. Even lying still in his bed, John could feel Sam's disapproval. He wouldn't taint this would-be bride. John could picture in his mind's eye the wedding he would never be invited to. The after-party, full of college kids and this second family Sam had found who brought casseroles and blankets. Then a cozy home, and possibly a few grandchildren.

It was beautiful, and John felt a tear sting his eye. For the first time, he could see what Sam had been fighting for, that day he left for college. John turned to look out the doorway, at the mother and sister and cousins gathered in the hallway to support Jessica. They made even this cold, stark hospital room feel warm.

The Winnie-the-Pooh blanket shifted. John was instantly alert, leaning forward, waiting for Sam's eyes to open. Across the bed, he saw Jessica do the same. They both hovered as Sam twitched slowly awake. His eyes blinked, then crinkled in confusion.

"De-De-" His voice was croaky, rough from the tube that had kept his lungs working. Jessica placed a cup with a straw on his lips, and he sucked down mouthful of water.

"I'm here, Sam."

"Dean? What happened? De-" Sam coughed, and winced.

Jessica dropped back, frowning. He hadn't called her name first. She looked up at John, a spark of jealously in her eyes. But Sam hadn't called for him, either. It didn't matter.

"I'm here, son." John placed his hand on Sam's shoulder. "I'm here."

Sam blinked again and squinted at John. "Dad?"

John smiled and nodded. "Yeah. I'm right here."

Sam's eyes drifted to the ceiling. "Here?"

"The hospital, son. You pulled a stupid move and got yourself beat up pretty bad. Why didn't you wait for me?"

Sam shrugged. "Couldn't. Had to end it. Bald man was mad." His eyes drifted, the stopped when they landed on Jessica. He smiled, a grin John hadn't seen since Sam was eight. Sam reached his hand toward her. His eyes found John again. "Dad, isn't she pretty?"

John bit back a chuckle, and Jessica blushed. "Yeah, Sammy. She's pretty, almost prettier than your mom. How are you feeling, son?"

"Hurt." Sam shifted, lifting pressure off of the side with the broken ribs. "Why did you bring it?"

John felt bile rise to his mouth. Bring it? The vetala. What else could he mean? "I didn't mean to, Sammy. I didn't know it was there."

"They're always there." He glanced at Jessica, then put his fingers to his lips. "Shhh. Can't talk about it."

"Talk about what, Sam?" Jessica asked. Sam closed his eyes and shook his head like a two-year-old. "Come on, sweetie. What did your Dad bring?"

"Dad!" Sam gripped John's hand tight, squeezing until the knuckles cracked. "It hurts! Dad, she can't get hurt. There was something wrong with the storm. Dad…" His voice trailed off in a whimper.

"It's ok, Sammy." John wrapped his arm around Sam's shoulders, and Sam relaxed into his embrace. "It's ok Sammy. It's over. I'm taking you home."

"Home." Sam's eyes fluttered, and closed again. He leaned into John's shoulder, and snored.

Jessica stared at John, eyes flashing. John met her gaze firmly. I've let this go on too long. It was a mistake from the beginning. John had already sent Dean to find the cleanest hotel within a day's drive. As soon as the doctor released Sam, John was putting him in the Impala and taking him far away from Lakeport, from college, and from this girl.

Home.

000

Agent Henricksen stood in the road, hands on hips, watching as the tow truck loaded his car up. The landscape was filled with debris left behind by the storm; tree limbs, trash cans, and a tire swing with a snapped string. There was no telling what Henricksen had hit in the dark and the rain to cause the flat tire and bent axle that had left him stranded.

Down the road, a team of men was working to move a truck that had landed on its backside. Traffic was already waiting past the orange cones for the lanes to clear and allow them through.

The truck belonged to John Winchester. The one that got away. The sing-song tag-line his colleagues had created still grated on Henricksen's ears. John Winchester was the tarnish in his arrest record. Even though he knew exactly where the man was, wringing his hands over his son's bedside, Victor couldn't arrest him. The statue of limitations for the old case had passed half a decade ago, and ever since the Roseville debacle, John had been careful not to get caught again.

Glass and papers lay scattered across the pavement. A young man in a leather jacket with spiky hair ran after the papers, gathering them up and stuffing them into an old cigar box. He looked vaguely familiar, like Victor had seen him in a picture, but not in person. That happened often enough, in his line of work. It wasn't really a surprise, either, as Caleb was there too, helping the young man gather the scattered possessions that had fallen from the truck's cab.

A plastic square tumbled across the pavement and Victor skipped forward to catch it. He stared at the picture and bright lettering on the other side. It claimed to be an FBI badge for "Darrin Stephens", but the picture was all too familiar.

John Winchester. Henricksen bit his knuckle to keep from crowing and glanced at Caleb and his young friend. Neither seemed to have noticed the missing badge. How many more fake Ids were in that cigar box? It didn't matter. He had all he needed in his hands.

Agent Henricksen turned away, humming merrily. This was a good day. This was the day he would finally arrest John Winchester.

 **Please Review! I love to hear from you.**


	21. What Matters Most

NOTE: Song lyrics are from AC/DC and The Beatles.

 **I cite events from the graphic novels in this chapter. If you haven't read them, you should still be able to follow the story. Just know that's where the events John refers to came from. Remember, I am trying to keep this story canon and will be setting things up for the Pilot episode.**

 **Chapter 21: What Matters Most**

The hospital cafeteria was empty this time of day. The lunch crowd was gone and it would be a few hours before the dinner crowd started to trickle in. A few people loitered, picking up snacks or coffee, but otherwise the place was silent. Even the staff weren't at the counter, they were in back preparing the next meal.

Sheriff Moore had already had his afternoon coffee, with a kind priest from Minnesota who believed in demons and ghosts and much, much more. Some people see the universe as a small place, where only the things that science can prove are real. Some see beyond all that, and they are either blessed or cursed by the knowledge. So said Pastor Jim.

The Sheriff didn't feel blessed, that was certain. The world had changed in the space of a day. He couldn't ignore what he had seen. How kind of the universe to provide him an explanation that same day. Brian did not believe in coincidence. Events were tied together, as were people. A man's presence could change the tone of a conversation, or a town.

Sam was the central figure here. The violence, the supernatural, family and friends coming to his side on the same day monsters appeared. Events and people collided around him. He didn't ask for it, didn't control it, but it happened nonetheless. As long as Brian's family was near Sam, they ran the risk of being caught up in everything he dragged in his wake.

Sheriff Moore found his daughter seated alone at a cafeteria table, hand resting on a large manilla file in front of her. She barely looked up when he sat down beside her. I had this talk with your daughter yesterday, Pastor Jim had said. I'm not sure if she believed me. Not like you do.

Jessica had not seen nature defy the laws of physics, the delivery boy's black eyes, or the monster on the coroner's exam table. Her face was drawn and thoughtful, but not haunted. Her mind was open to the possibility that Sam believed all this, but she didn't know it for herself yet. Not really.

Do I want her to? Brian wasn't sure. He'd had little enough time to think about it himself. But there was more going on here than a belief in demons and all things nasty. Believing in ghosts was one thing, living a life of crime to hunt them down was something else entirely. Sheriff Moore placed his hand on the manilla folder.

"Are you done with this?"

Jessica nodded and pushed it toward him. "Yes." Her voice was thick with frustration. Brian's stomach churned.

"What did you find out?"

"Nothing!" Jessica pounded a fist into the table and rolled her eyes. "Those FBI agents don't know anything important."

Brian glanced at the file, then back up to his daughter. She was perfectly serious. The set of her jaw said she was spoiling for a fight, but there was no one to vent her wrath to. "There are over a hundred pages here."

"I know!" Jessica fumed. "It's mostly credit card statements. I don't need to know that they like to eat at Biggerson's and shop at the Big & Tall. I mean, have you seen Sam? Where else can he shop? They lived on the road and didn't stay anywhere more than three months. So? How did Sam feel about that? Who took care of him when his dad was away? He's a good fighter, but why did he decide to stop? How does he get along with his brother? Do they fight a lot? There's nothing important in here, nothing at all!"

"Hm." Brian knew better than to say much at this point. Better to let her get it out of her system. But as she broke it down, he realized she was right. The FBI didn't know much, not about the things that really matter. Facts and data are easy to assemble, he'd learned that long ago. It's the 'why' of a crime that's hard to gather. You've got to read between the lines.

"Pastor Jim said he talked to you."

Jessica nodded. "Yeah. About ghosts and demons and weird, creepy things like that. They all believe in it. His dad. His brother. Sam believes it all." She sighed and shook her head.

"Do you?"

Jessica frowned. "I don't know. Does it really matter? I mean, I wanted to know what his secret was so bad, but now-I'm not sure I learned anything at all."

"You don't think knowing monsters are real is important?"

"It doesn't really change anything, does it? You never see one until it tries to kill you. Traffic accidents happen all the time. People die from choking on their dinner. It's just one more random thing in the world that can kill you."

Brian blinked and leaned back in his chair. Jessica had always had a firm grasp on logic, a way of seeing the world at it's most practical base. Her comments stopped the fears galloping through is brain. So there's one more thing out there that could kill you. So what?

"So, what is important?" Brian asked.

Jessica opened her mouth, then closed it again and shook her head. "I don't know how to say it. It's just, that feeling you have when you know someone. When you've spent time with them and you know how they are. I know what Mom will say when Jenna asks for an extra hundred bucks to decorate her dorm room. I know what you would say if I decided to switch schools and move halfway across the country. We know each other. We know how we fit together. Sam and his family-I don't know how they fit."

Brian waited. There was more coming, he knew from experience.

"Sam's dad wants him to come home. He wants to take Sam away with him." Jessica stared at her knees, sniffling. "Daddy, I don't know what Sam's going to do!"

Brian wrapped his daughter in his arms and let her sob on his shoulder. So. Sam might leave them forever, and take this new, dark world of monsters with him. As much as he'd come to care for the boy, in that moment, Brian wasn't sure whether he wanted Sam to stay.

000

It was too quiet. Dean didn't like silence. He liked crowded bars full of people and music. He liked to blast the bass until the car windows vibrated. Waiting in the hospital this past day, there had always been noise. The beep of the machines, the murmur of voices, the foot traffic and nurses and members of the Moore family came in and out. There had always been someone nearby. Even in the quietest moments, the space had still felt full, alive.

Now the hospital room felt dead and empty. Jessica had gone to meet up with her father in the cafeteria for a coffee. Moore family and extended family had stopped passing through. Caleb and Jim were both out searching the town for demon signs. Dad was at the nurse's station, checking on Sam's status. The machines were quiet and tucked away in the corner, no longer needed. Sam was doing well. He was breathing on his own, he had even eaten a little bit. Now he was asleep, still dosed on strong painkillers and not very coherent when he was awake.

Sam was never this quiet when Dad was so close. Always, there was a constant string of complaints coming out of his mouth. His silence felt wrong. Dean knew it was the drugs, keeping Sammy comfortable while he healed, but he wanted his brother back, awake and alert and yes, complaining about Dad.

Dad had given Dean orders to find a hotel room on the other side of the state line. A clean, reputable hotel where they could stay for several days. Dean had found it, with the help of a local travel agent. A room was reserved and waiting for them. For Sam.

Dean looked at his little brother, face purple and swollen from the beating he'd taken. He wanted to take Sam away from here and keep him stowed safely away in a hotel more than anything.

He also knew it wouldn't work. When Sam woke up and realized where he was, he would try to leave immediately. They might convince him to stay and rest for a few days. After that-well, Dean had witnessed that fight once already. He didn't want to see it again.

Dad didn't seem to care. He was moving forward with the plan to take Sam home, oblivious to the obvious. Sam wouldn't stay home. Dean had said as much. John didn't care.

John came into the room pushing and empty wheelchair. "Let's get him up, Dean."

"Dad, you know he won't stay."

"He'll stay." John reached forward to pull back the covers from Sam's thin frame. Sam twitched, but didn't wake. "I'll tell him that he lost his job and the Moores wanted him out of town as soon as possible. I'll tell him that two fights in one summer made him lose his scholarship. He won't have anywhere else to go."

"She'll call him. Dad, Sam and this girl, they're really serious." They're in love. Dean had noticed on his first day in town. This wasn't a summer fling or a college experiment. They might not have exchanged rings yet, but they might as well have.

"She can try." John picked up Sam's phone and pulled out the SIM card. "She won't get through. Help me get him up."

Wake up, Sammy, Dean wanted to shout. He wanted to shake Sam awake here and now. Because having it out here would hurt less, somehow, than watching Sam leave again in a week. But he didn't. He followed his father's orders, and helped him shift Sam gently from the bed to the wheelchair. Sam mumbled something, but otherwise was quiet. That would change as soon as the painkillers wore off.

 _Na-na-na-na-na-na-na! Thunder_! The distant murmur of a gravelly voice and a thrumming bass rolled through Dean's head. _I was caught, in the middle of a railroad track_! AC/DC was the soundtrack of his life. He knew every word and every chord by heart. It played through his mind as he wheeled Sam out the door, following Dad to the lobby and the parking lot beyond.

"SAM!"

Jessica stood between the Winchesters and the rotating glass doors, her hands outstretched like a human stop-sign, face flushed red with anger, eyes flashing. "What are you doing?"

"I'm taking him home." John didn't even paused. He pushed past Jessica. Dean tried to follow, but it wasn't easy to steer a wheelchair around a girl who kept shifting sideways to keep in front of him.

"He's not ready to go home yet!" Jessica dropped to her knees and took Sam's hand in hers. His eyes fluttered, and he murmured her name.

"Jess. Are you mad?"

"Furious." She jumped to her feet again and squared her shoulders to face John.

 _My mind raced, and I thought, what could I do_. Dean hummed the familiar chords, and he saw Sam's head bobbing along to the beat.

Somehow, Jessica's explosion released the tension. Dean hated it when Sam and Dad fought. Their anger always pinned him to a wall like a bug, helpless to stop the train wreck in front of him. But this girl and her calculated fury were comforting. Familiar.

 _She's a lot like mom_. His memories of Mary Winchester were distant and hazy, held together by willpower more than fact. Dean had seen his mom square off against his dad just that way more than once. She never lost control and she never yelled. She steered the conversation by sheer force of will.

Dean flipped the parking break on the wheelchair. This could take a while. Dad looked at him, Dean looked down, keeping his eyes fixed on Sam.

 _I knew there'd be no help, no help from you_. This was one fight Dean planned to stay well out of.

"Sam is coming home with me, where he belongs."

"He belongs here."

"He's safer with me."

Jessica's voice was fierce but not shrill, the train's warning whistle. Dad's was deep and firm, like the rumbling of the train on the track. They were in for a head-on collision, and his only job was to keep Sam out of the way.

"Strickler's dead! There isn't any danger anymore."

 _You've been thunderstruck_!

Ha! Dad thought there was danger everywhere. It was rule number one. You are never safe.

"Dad? Jess? What's wrong?"

Sam's voice was so soft Dean could hardly hear it. Sam started to squirm in his chair, blinking at his surroundings.

"Hey, Sammy. You're ok." Dean put a hand on Sam's should and spoke in the softest tone he had, the one he'd used to soothe Sam to sleep as a child.

Sam shook his head. "Not me…Jessica…" He pushed on the arms of the chair, trying to lever himself up.

Dean jumped around to catch Sam before he could pitch face-first into the floor and kept an arm firmly over Sam's chest to prevent him from moving again. "She's fine, Sammy. Just fighting with Dad, like you usually do. Where did you find her?"

Sam grinned. "Ethics class."

Jessica was talking about Sam's right to make his own choices while John insisted on his right to protect his son. Dean snorted. "Figures."

A doctor had joined the fray now, holding paperwork and talking about Power of Attorney trumping family.

 _Thunder_!

Now the Sheriff was there, and hospital security was threatening to throw John out altogether.

 _Thunder_!

"I don't think Dad's going to shoot her today. She's not a monster is disguise, is she?"

Sam laughed at some hidden memory. "No, she loves salty food." Sam's face was draining of color, and he held his arm close to his injured side, a sure sign of pain.

"Good. Ready to go back to bed?" There wasn't any point in waiting around. Dad had lost this fight, and he would figure that out soon enough. Sam was the priority, and he needed rest.

Sam nodded. "Yeah. Wait…why are we in the lobby?"

Dean knew when telling the truth as a very bad idea. He'd had an instinct for it ever since he was small. It was a good think Sam had yet to figure out how to tell when he was lying.

"I'm trolling for chicks, you're my wingman. Look pathetic, ok?"

Sam tilted his head back, eyes wide and sorrowful. Then he frowned and clutched his stomach. "I don't feel so good."

"Well, maybe we should ask them to check your meds."

"Yeah." Sam slumped back in the chair, his head lolling against Dean's arm. "Thanks, Dean."

The sound of AC/DC faded away, crowded out by the warmth suddenly flooding him. Dean was glad Sam had grown up, but sometimes, he missed the child his brother had been. Things had been so much easier, when Sam was a child. Dean hummed all the way back to the room, their mother's favorite lullaby.

 _Hey Jude, don't make it bad. Take a sad song, and make it better…_

000

The California sky was blue and clear, the sun a warm promise of a pleasant day ahead. The storm clouds were long gone, banished when the demon left. John kept a wary eye on the sky nonetheless. He didn't trust the calm, and knew form experience how quickly a storm could blow in from nowhere. Dark fears thundered through his thoughts, each bloody what-if worse than the next. He paced the hospital parking lot, fuming, unable to hold still yet unwilling to leave his son.

It didn't matter that he could no longer hold his baby in one arm, that Sam had surpassed him in height years ago. It didn't matter that Sam was legally an adult and society said he could make his own choice. It didn't matter that he had lived safely on his own for three years. Trouble could come at any time, and when it did, John had to be able to defend his baby boy.

"The demons are long gone."

Jim had followed John to the parking lot. He sat, calm and still, on the hood of his rented car and watched John pace.

"We don't know that."

Jim tilted his head back to take in the clear sky. "We're pretty sure. Dean, Caleb, and I have been sweeping the city and surrounding countryside for two days. There's nothing."

"They could be back. They're biding their time. We can't know when they will strike."

Jim shook his head. "John, this conspiracy theory you've got going…"

"It's not a theory. They tried to kidnap Sam when he was seven. They've been following him his entire life. They want something from him."

"John, demons don't make grand plans. They don't have any leader or centralized organization. They're all out for themselves, and they thrive on chaos and pain. They play with people like a cat plays with its dinner. They don't follow kids for twenty years, they move from one victim to the next."

"There is something more going on here." The knowledge was branded in John's skin. The old burn from the fire in Lawrence. The cuts from his fight against Lillith. The scar in his chest, from the first time he'd faced the yellow-eyed demon the night Sam left for Stanford. He knew more than he could ever say out loud because he never knew who was listening, whose ears might have been hijacked. His enemy could hide anywhere. In the child across the street, in the woman unloading groceries from her car, in the paramedic taking his break at the picnic table by the ER doors.

"They're not coming back, John. Sam is as safe here as he will be anywhere else. You can't force him to accept our way of life. He's got to make his own choice."

"He's not watching his back anymore. He's gotten soft. When the time comes, when they come for him, he won't be ready."

"He did pretty well, considering."

John closed his eyes. Yes, that much was true. If Sam hadn't been through John Winchester's school of hunting, Strickler would have killed him within the first five minutes. "He's my son, Jim."

"You can't control him, John. If you had taken him out of that hospital, what do you think would happen when he woke up? As soon as he could walk-"

"He'd be back out that door. Dean said as much." John slumped against the car next to Jim. The storm inside was stilling, the energy funneled to a clear purpose. "I have to find that thing, before it comes back for Sam."

"You could try talking to Sam, you know. Tell him the truth."

Truth. John shuddered at the thought. If he told Sam what little he knew, Sam would demand more answers, answers that John didn't have yet. The resulting argument could wind up worse than their last encounter.

"No. That's not an option."

"If you want him safe, John, you have to give him the tools to survive. Which includes the truth. Unless you don't really want him to hunt. Unless this," Jim gestured to the surrounding town of Lakeport, going about its daily business, oblivious to the evil that had just passed through. "This is what you actually want for him."

"He's got a chance at a real life." The life I couldn't give him.

Jim just nodded knowingly. He'd spent too many years listening to people divulge their darkest secrets. He knew how to read a man, cut through the lies he told himself, and get to the heart of a matter.

"They will all suffer, if the demons come for Sam."

"If there truly is a grand plan."

John didn't care if the priest believed. "I'd better get back to it, then. I've been working on a system to track demons. Time to test it out."

Jim perked up at this. "Track a demon?"

John grinned. "Yep. Now all I need is the right gun. When I find it, this bastard won't see it coming. I'll snuff out that hellfire in his eyes, and I'll dance on his bones."

"You're leaving without seeing Sam?"

The words were like hook on his heart, pulling him back to the hospital. John looked toward Sam's window, and shook his head. "He won't want to see me. It'll be a while before his head is clear. I don't need to lose any more time."

000

DENIED.

Henricksen stared at the red letters stamped across his request for an arrest warrant. Paper-clipped to the file was a memo from his supervisor, demanding his immediate return to his permanent office.

The phone on his desk rang. Henricksen didn't want to pick it up, but he didn't have much choice. His boss knew he was in the office. Probably had someone notify him as soon as the paperwork reached him.

"Chief."

"Victor, what the hell do you think you're doing? There's a kid in the hospital, he's there because you dropped the ball, and you want to arrest his dad for a phony ID we can't prove he made or had in his possession?" The voice was taut with stress and in no mood for argument.

"Boss, it came out of his truck."

"You think. Agent, you don't have a case and you know it. What is it with you and the Winchesters?"

Henricksen ground his teeth. 'They creep me out' was not going to fly. "John Winchester is up to something bad, boss. The other son is probably in on it. If I can hold him long enough to question him-"

"You don't have cause! You are not allowed to arrest a Winchester until you have evidence that a defense attorney can't refute. Got it?"

"Yeah, I got it."

"Good."

The line went dead. Henricksen grabbed the arrest paperwork and ripped it apart once, twice, three times. Bits of paper flew through the air like confetti. One day, he would catch the Winchesters.

 **NOTE: Hope you enjoyed the chapter. More to come. Please review!**


	22. Where's the Pie?

**Chapter 22: Where's the Pie?**

A bird was singing in the window. It was small and brown, just a common sparrow, but its voice was soft and sweet. Jessica caught herself humming along, basking in the sun in the seat by the window. The hospital room had begun to feel like the only world that existed, she'd been in it so long. The world outside felt like a distant memory. Birdsong washed over ears in a refreshing stream, and she echoed the tuneless ditty with a smile on her face.

The bleak silence of the room had transformed into a quiet peace since the Winchester's left. Jessica had made full use of her Power of Attorney where Sam was concerned, and asked that they both be removed from the building. Dad was at his FBI interview, and Mom was home with Jenna. Jessica was alone with Sam, and that was just the way she liked it.

A deeper humming joined in, creating a three-part harmony for the space of a breath. Then Jessica gasped and turned to see Sam, eyes open and clear, smiling at her.

"Hey."

"Hey." Jessica moved to the bed, and Sam shifted sideways to give her room to curl up next to him. She sat facing him, her legs tucked under her, and pulled his hand into her lap. "You're awake for real this time."

Sam frowned. "This time?"

Jess nodded. "You were pretty out of it for a little while. They had to adjust your meds."

"Meds?" Sam blinked and looked around at his surroundings. "What happened?"

Jess felt her entire frame expand, and Sam leaned back in his pillows, a wary look on his face. Let him be scared. He'd certainly not thought about her when he'd walked off into a storm to face down an enraged hit-man all alone.

"You left the Sheriff's office, you left the FBI behind, and you went to fight Strickler by yourself."

Sam's eyes roved the ceiling, searching for the memory. She saw his entire face shift when he found it. "Oh. Right." He shifted, and winced. "I take it I lost?"

"You don't remember?"

"It's a little hazy. Wait-" His head turned, eyes searching the room. "Dean was there. I didn't go alone, Dean was with me-where's Dean?" Sam struggled to sit upright, levering himself up with his elbows and pulling at the covers. Jess re-captured his hand.

"It's ok, Sam. Dean's ok. He wasn't hurt at all. Dad said someone-" Something, an invisible magic hand created by a black-eyed demon. "Someone made sure he couldn't help you. He was stuck in the car."

Sam relaxed back into the bed. "Where is he?"

"Banned from the hospital."

Sam stared, and Jessica grinned with pride.

"Why?"

A series of possible stories had filled Jessica's head since she'd realized that Sam would ask this very question. Several were plausible. All were lies. She didn't want to lie to Sam, even if she hadn't decide how much to share just yet. He wouldn't like to hear she'd read his FBI file, and she didn't think he needed to know. This, though, this he deserved to know about.

"He tired to kidnap you, him and your dad. They were going to wheel you out when no one was looking. They even took the SIM card out of your phone, I can't find it anywhere. I already called the cell company, they're sending a new one, but you'll have to re-enter all your contacts."

Sam stuttered several times during this short speech, trying to interrupt, but Jessica pushed through until it was all out. Sam sat back, staring at her in wonder.

"You stopped him? I thought…I thought that was a dream."

Now Jessica grinned. "Nope, that was real. I thought you slept through the whole thing."

Sam shook his head. "I don't remember much. Just you, shouting. Dad shouting. I know that sound pretty well." Sam looked down and picked at the blanket. "He really-he tried to take me away?" There was a hopeful undertone in his voice.

"He seemed to think that you were still in danger, even though Strickler's dead. He's dead and gone, Dad shot him, and you're safe right here, Sam." Jessica laced her finger's through his and leaned forward for a kiss. Now was the time to make her point, before Sam left the hospital, and his father and his brother got a chance to talk to him. They'd stopped staking out the parking lot last night, but she knew they couldn't be far away.

Sam melted into her kiss, then shook his head when she pulled away. "Dad hasn't changed a bit. He's always paranoid, and it's always nothing. I can't believe he…" Sam bounced his fist on the mattress and looked away. "He never understood. I thought…he was really here?" Sam's eyes were fixed on the chair where John had sat just yesterday. "Why was he here?"

It wrenched at her heart, the tone in his voice, half hope and half despair. Hope that he could see his father again and mend their quarrel. Despair that it would never happen. John had used the exact same tone. How could they be so alike, and have no idea what the other thought?

"He was here to see you, Sam."

Sam sucked in a breath, jaw clenched in the expression he wore when he was trying to not cry. They were all torn in half today. Sam, wanting his father but wishing away his past. Jessica wishing to help heal this family, but terrified that doing so would break her own heart.

"He was waiting in the parking lot, but he's gone now. I'm sure he'll turn up as soon as we leave. You two can have a chance to talk."

"Talk. Right." Sam reached for his phone. He spent a few moments glaring at the screen, pushing buttons, confirming that all of his saved files were gone. He tossed it away with a scowl. "I can't believe him some days."

"He loves you, Sam. I could see that."

"That's not what this is about." Sam closed his eyes and leaned back, looking worn out. "Strickler's dead you said?"

"Yes."

"Then it's over." Sam rubbed his hand on her knee and fiddled with the hem of her shorts. "I'm glad you're here. I was worried…I wasn't sure if you'd want to come back after everything that happened."

Jessica slid forward to curl up against his side, careful not to jostle any of his bandages. "I'm not going anywhere Sam."

000

The apartment door was dented and scratched from years of use. The carpet in the hallway threadbare and littered with the bug carcasses. The lights were dim; half of them had fizzled out months ago. It was one of the cheapest places in town, suitable for two college kids on a low budget. Jessica had spruced it up as much as possible, with a cheery Scooby-Doo welcome matt and a bunch of silk flowers affixed to the door knocker. It was little touches like that which Sam had never experienced in his motherless childhood.

They had only lived in this apartment for two months, and would be gone in another three weeks, but for now it was home, and it was beautiful. Sam walked gingerly, every step shooting pain through his body, but it was worth it. After three days in the hospital, he was ready to be back home.

The drive here had been quiet, with Jessica's eyes fixed on the road and Sam's fixed out the window, searching for a sign of his father or his brother. He'd half expected one or the other to break into his hospital room after visiting hours, but all had been quiet. What had Jessica said to them, to make John Winchester vanish so completely? It was like he'd never been in town at all.

Yet the smell of stale beer, burnt gasoline, and gunpowder lingered, and Sam knew his father had been present at some point in time. Only to vanish now when he could actually talk to Sam. When Sam could have a chance to show his dad his new life, show him what he had done on his own. Prove to him that he'd made the right choice.

Maybe he would show up later. Sam waited while Jessica ducked around him to open the door. They both stared at the mess that greeted them. Dirty dishes filled the sink. Blankets lay tossed across the couch. Beer cans littered the coffee table. A funny smell lingered in the air, strongest in the general vicinity of the bathroom.

"What the hell?" Jessica flew around the room, picking up debris and checking the valuables. Despite the cheap location, Jess kept the house clean. "Someone was here. Who would-they didn't take anything. The TV, my MP3 player, my computer, it's all here."

Sam shuffled toward the couch and Jessica cleared a space for him to collapse. She paused and stared at the waste basket. "Hey! They tried to throw away my favorite CDs!" She bent to fish them back out again. Ricky Martin and the Backstreet Boys.

A squatter who didn't take anything and was a music critic. Sam tried not to laugh, because he knew it would hurt too much, but he could feel a smile spread across his face. "Dean. I think you made him mad."

Jessica raised her eyebrows. "Dean? You think your brother did this?"

"I know he did this." Sam had seen the strategy before, whenever Dad left them with a babysitter who got on Dean's bad side.

"Of all the childish… at least he flushed the toilet. I have to clean the bathroom. Our toothpaste! Yuck. Your brother…"

Has clean spit. Sam grinned at the memory of a babysitter with the exact same complaint, and Dean's glib response. He might not have been present at the hospital, but he had made his presence known.

Jessica kept muttering as she picked up the scattered laundry and shifted the clutter so that Sam would have a clear path to the bathroom and kitchen from his place on the couch. Sam intended to stay exactly where he was as long as possible. The familiar fatigue of recovery made his limbs feel like lead, and the walk from the car to the door had been plenty of exercise for the day.

Jess placed a bottle of water and a bag of snacks on the coffee table. She hovered with a concerned look, as if she wasn't quite sure of her next move.

"Are you set for a little while? I have to get your prescriptions. I have to do laundry. I have to get new toothpaste."

"I'll be fine." Sam smiled to show her how good he felt. Jess pecked him on the cheek, and bustled out the door, laundry basked tucked under one arm and grocery bags slung over the other.

Sam leaned back and surveyed the chaos. He felt a little bad about not being able to help Jess with any of the clean-up, but then, that had probably been part of Dean's plan.

The door opened on cue. Dean must have been staking out the hallway.

"Your girlfriend is scary when she's mad." Dean walked in without knocking. He had a cooler in one hand and an empty cardboard box in the other. "How are you doing, Sammy?"

Sam glared, letting his annoyance be known, even though all he felt was a swell of relief. Jess had said Dean was ok, but seeing him made it real. Sam had never before woken up after an injury without Dean at his side. His brother's presence filled the empty spaces and Sam felt himself relax deeper into the couch.

"I'd be better if my place wasn't wrecked."

Dean paused and looked around, then put a hand on his chest in mock offense. "Wrecked? Sammy, it's like I never took you to a party at all. This isn't wrecked. This is…lived in."

Dean set the box and cooler aside and perched on the edge of the coffee table, looking Sam over the same way he did right after a fight, checking for injury. "How are you doing?"

"I'll be fine. I won't work for a week, but I'll be fine."

Dean nodded, satisfied. "Good. You know, this girl of yours has a nice family. Great cooks, all of them. Did you see inside this fridge yet? They've made you guys meals for every day of the week." Dean pulled the cooler toward the fridge and transferred a stack of meals into it.

"Hey! That's ours." Sam knew it was a waste of breath. When Dean set his mind on something, it happened. Especially when it came to food. Besides, there was something comforting about the utter rudeness of Dean being Dean.

"They'll make you more. Me, I need food for the road." Dean grinned, and kept stuffing the cooler. Then, he moved to the counter, which was stacked full of desserts. Dean sorted through them, sniffing some items before rejecting them, a scowl on his face. "The one thing I don't, get though, is this." He spread his arms wide to include all of the assembled goodies. "You've got cake, brownies, blondies, muffins, cookies, cookie bars, and stuff I can't even name." Dean picked up a chocolate-covered-something, bit into it, and nodded approvingly before shifting the plate into his box. "But there's no pie. Ten women making desserts, and not a single one makes pie. What's wrong with this family, huh? I'm concerned for you, Sam."

It was an old argument, but Sam didn't mind. "I don't actually like pie, Dean."

"You keep saying that, I don't know why." Dean shook his head and settled a plate of chocolate chip cookies within Sam's reach on the coffee table. Sam's favorite.

Sam didn't hesitate to reach for the cookies. "Because I don't like pie, Dean."

Dean closed the lid on the cooler and settled the box full of sweets on top. He fixed Sam with a stern look, all traces of kidding gone. Now, Sam would find out why he was really here. "It's not safe here for you, Sam. Aside from the coronary these people are helping along, you've gotten soft. You don't watch your back-"

"I shouldn't have to." That was the whole point, after all. Sam didn't want that life. Dad and Dean never understood that.

"A demon tried to kill you!"

Sam's stomach clenched. He'd tried not to think about that. The storm, the kid with the black eyes, the way Dean had been pinned inside the Impala. He shrugged. "No, it didn't. It was playing with Strickler, not me. Besides, Pastor Jim said that its gone."

Dean closed his eyes in frustration. "Sammy, you can't ignore what's out there." His voice was rough with worry. Sam shifted, and felt pain throb through his side. He probably still looked terrible. His face was stiff and puffy, and the bruises on his arms were turning green. Dean had a right to be concerned, looking at Sam with his most earnest, trust-me expression, the one that had suckered so many over the years.

Sam wasn't immune to it, but he was used to it. He could tell his brain to bypass the circuits wired to respond to that protective instinct and hold his own. "I'm not ignoring it, I just don't want anything to do with it. Most people live their lives without ever hearing of a monster. I'm more likely to die in a car crash."

There was more there, it was written on Dean's face, dancing on the tip of his tongue. They were teetering on the edge of the secret. Sam didn't know what it was. No one had ever told him. But he knew it existed. There was something Dad knew that he wasn't telling. Dean knew at least a piece of it, but he wasn't sharing. There was something more to this twenty-year-old vendetta, some other reason John wanted his children to be hunters. Sam had known it since he was a child. There was something else, but it would never be spoken out loud.

Dean shut his mouth an looked away. "Car crash? Not with me, you wouldn't."

"Dean-"

"You know, Caleb thinks you want to be a lawyer so you can help hunters. It didn't even cross his mind that you could ignore what's out there, leave it all behind and act like it doesn't exist. So he figured you had to have a reason for going to school." Dean's mouth quirked into half a smile. "You know, it's not a bad idea. We could use a good lawyer on our side. I could call you when I have trouble with the cops."

It was a great idea, with one problem.

"That vetala, it followed Dad here, didn't it?"

"That wasn't-"

"Yes, it was. Three people in this town got hurt because of Dad, just because he was a hunter and he was near them." Sam shook his head. "I can't be near it, Dean. I can't be near hunters."

The silence hung between them, impenetrable as a steel wall.

"Right." Dean sighed, and turned back to his cooler. "Guess it's time to hit the road then." Dean was loaded up his food, balancing everything in one arm so he had the other hand free for the door.

"Dean, I didn't mean-"

Nothing had changed. The same arguments about pie. The same teasing. The same old problems. Dean could never separate family from hunting. Sam didn't know why, but his brain had cemented those two things together. He couldn't see that Sam wasn't leave his family, just the job. Even though Sam's fight had been with Dad, it was the reason the brothers hadn't spoken since.

It was Sam's biggest regret. This week had been awful, but it had been wonderful, too. He hadn't realized just how much he missed his brother. But now, his brother was leaving, because he couldn't accept Sam's choice. Because he couldn't accept who Sam really was, that Sam was not a hunter.

Dean shook his head, giving Sam one last look. For a brief second, his mask was gone and the hurt was raw in his eyes. Dean so rarely let Sam see past his happy façade, Sam sometimes forgot how much of it was a front. He knew, though. He'd always known, even when he didn't really think about it. The fact that Dean didn't bother to make him feel better about it felt like a knife in Sam's gut.

They were good at that, hitting each other where it hurt the most.

"Don't, Sam. Sam. Just-don't."

Dean stepped out the door, and was gone. Suddenly small apartment felt empty and cold.

000

The Impala's engine roared as Dean pushed her speed to the limit on the highway. Metallica blared out of the speakers, rattling the doors. It wasn't loud enough to drown out the words echoing in his mind. Sam's voice, so soft, had hit him harder than a hammer. I can't be near hunters.

I'm a hunter! Dean pushed the accelerator harder. Sam always knew how to push his buttons, how to dig under his skin without even trying. The look on Sam's face after he'd said it was the worst. The dismay when he realized what he'd said, the knowledge that he'd meant it. Sam would do anything to avoid hunting, to run away from the life he'd shared with Dean and Dad.

Dean banged his hands against the steering wheel. He'd given everything to Sam, and his brother took it all and walked away from the only thing that mattered. Even so, Dean couldn't hate him. He glanced at the passenger seat, stocked with home-cooked food that would last him a week. The life Sam had chosen was nice. Good. Happy.

Why can't I have that?

Strange thought. Dean wasn't sure where it had come from, and firmly pushed it aside. There wasn't room in his world for that kind of thought. Dreaming of the way things could be only took away from what he had.

What did he have? My brother is safe. It was the most important thing, and it would have to be enough.

Dean eased off the accelerator, bringing his speed back to the socially acceptable range. He made a u-turn and headed back to town.

John was waiting for Dean outside his motel. His truck was sitting in he parking lot, tools littered around it, still not quite ready for the road. Thankfully, the Impala had not taken any damage.

If she had, Dean would have an excuse to stay. To see Sam again. Not that he was sure what he would say. He just knew he didn't want to leave.

John wiped grease from his hands and settled on the bed of the truck.

"How's Sam?"

"Fine." Dean sat next to his father. Stubborn as ever, with no need of us. "He acts like nothing happened. I tried to get him to come home. He wouldn't even think of it." Dean paused. "Dad, I think we should tell him about the demons. The ones that tried to kidnap him when he was a kid. They could be back anytime, and he doesn't even know to watch his back."

"No." John's tone left no room for argument.

Why not! Dean wanted to shout. Instead, he gritted his teeth and nodded. It was his job to obey, not ask questions. "Yes, sir."

"I've got a hunt for you." John handed Dean a newspaper clipping. "Out in Nebraska, looks like a standard salt and burn."

Dean took the newspaper, but didn't bother to look at it. "Dad, why can't I stay with you? Pastor Jim said you're going demon-hunting. I can help."

"I need you hunting, saving people." John tapped the paper in Dean's hand. "Do your job, son."

Once again, Dean swallowed his protest and nodded. "Yes, sir."

Back to the open road, the empty car, the blood-filled nights and no one to share it all with. He'd thought he was ok with that, until this week. Until he'd seen Sam again.

John placed his hand on Dean's shoulder with a comforting squeeze, a rare show of affection from a man who had stopped giving hugs before his boys hit double digits. "I need you to do this, Dean. If you're hunting, I'm free to do other things. I can't chase every case and this demon. I need you on this case."

"I'm on it." Dean clasped his father's shoulder, and they shared a nod. If this was a chick flick, they would have been weeping, dabbing at their eyes with handkerchiefs, and saying heartfelt things about staying safe and keeping an eye on Sam.

But they were Winchesters, so they said good-bye in silence.

Dean slid back into the Impala and changed tapes, letting the sounds of Styx's _Blue Collar Man_ wash over him. Time to get back to work.

 **Note:** I hate that Dean was alone for so long! But we all know he and Sammy will be back together soon. We are near the end, but not quite there yet. John and Henricksen each have one more stop to make before they leave town. Sheriff Moore is still re-evaluating Sam, and Jessica has to decide where she wants things to go from here. I've got at least two chapters left. Thanks so much for reading. Please don't forget to review and let me know your reactions to this chapter or the story overall now that you see where its gone. Endings are always hardest for me, and I want to make sure I wrap this up right. Please let me know if you feel something is missing, or there is a story element that we need to see for closure. It'll help me be a better writer, and I'll try to work it in if it fits.


	23. Last Words

**NOTE:** I want to give a special thanks to MJ Ellsworth, StyxxsOmega, OrionHunts, EmilyAnnMcGarrett-Winceshter, StorySmith and Doclover for faithfully reviewing every chapter. Also thanks to Kathy and Catherine who posted as guests, I regret that I never got a chance to reply to your reviews, but thank you, thank you, thank you. It has been to great to hear from each and every one of you. You are the reason this story became what it did. I hop you enjoy this final chapter. I had a hard time writing this one, even though the images for these scenes have been in my head since the beginning. I don't think I wanted it to end!

 **PS:** Keep Trucking, thanks for all your reviews! It's been wonderful to hear from you.

 **Chapter 23: Last Words**

Everything hurt. Sam's ribs ached. His head ached. Every muscle was sore and stiff. There was another ache, too, one that didn't belong to any body part Sam could name. It was located somewhere in his chest, but to say his heart hurt wasn't in Sam's vocabulary. It was the kind of thought that just made John grunt and turn away, and brought snide comments from Dean. Winchesters didn't talk about hurting, because everything about being a Winchester hurt.

Saying good-bye to Dad and waiting for him to return, wondering if he would, hurt. Enduring stares and whispers as the new kid at school, hurt. Staying up late, researching in fear that if he didn't find the answer faster enough, another person would die, hurt. Stating the life he wanted, and seeing his family's reaction, hurt. It never stopped hurting, being a Winchester. So what was the point in saying anything about it?

It hurt more today. Sam lay on the couch, eyes fixed on the window, ears straining for the sound of knocking at the door. He'd been home for nearly a week, and there had been nothing. Dean was long gone, he knew. But Dad…Jessica said Dad had been there, at the hospital. Dad had wanted him to come home. Dad had been in town for a whole week, hunting Strickler. And now?

Now Sam waited, waited for his father again, and knew that this time Dad wouldn't show up. It had been too long. John had surely moved on. There was no point in waiting. But Sam still watched and listened.

Jessica's hand landed on his shoulder. "Hey, are you ok?"

"Yeah." Sam nodded. "I'm fine." It wasn't a lie, not really. He'd learn to deal with this and worse, in their life on the road.

"What's that?" Jess nodded to the picture in Sam's hand. "Is that your dad?"

"My dad and my mom. He left it for me." The first time he was here. But Jessica didn't need to know that. She'd stopped asking questions. Sam didn't know why, and he didn't care.

"Your mom. I thought you didn't have any pictures of her."

"Just this one." It was strange to think about his mother. Dad and Dean talked about her with such warmth. They had so many emotions tied to her memory, but Sam had none. She was an idea to him, not a real person. Dad was real, Dad was who he wanted to see.

"He's not coming."

Jessica didn't answer. There was nothing to say. She'd watched him stare out the window all week, seen him jump when anyone came to the door. She knew what he was waiting for. Sam had half-wondered if Jessica had found a way to keep John out of the apartment. She had been so mad at the hospital. But he knew she wouldn't do that. She didn't make decisions for him, the way Dad and Dean tried to. It was part of why he loved being near her.

"I have to go for groceries. Are you good here?"

Sam smiled. "I'm fine. I walked up and down the block yesterday. Doc says I can go back to work on Monday."

Jessica nodded, but the look in her eyes said that wasn't exactly what she had been asking about.

"I thought things would change, if you met them. I thought something…I don't know… I thought if Dad saw how well things are going, if he met you…" Sam had dreamed of Dad, throwing away his guns and getting an apartment here in town. He could see John and Dean working together at a mechanic shop, while he kept the books. The family business.

"You don't need him, Sam."

"No." Need didn't really have anything to do with it. Being a Winchester meant never getting everything you want. There was always a choice. Sam had made his. He levered himself up from the couch, and pulled the blinds over the window.

000

Sheriff Moore sat at his desk, contemplating his hands. They were clean, unremarkable, with a wart on the left thumb and the right index finger a little crooked from a run-in with a door when he was a child. It felt strange, that his hands should be the same as always. They ought to be dirty, stained with blood that he could wash off. No, the only thing left behind on his skin was gunpowder residue that only time could wash away.

In all his time serving Lake County, he had pulled his weapon three times. Only once had he fired. A man was dead, because of these hands. The FBI had surveyed the scene and the body. They had interviewed him, and Sam, and determined that the shooting was justified. Necessary, even, to save a life.

Brian still wasn't sure how he felt about that. Barely a week, and everything was complete and he was back at his desk. The FBI rarely moved so fast. Brian was sure they wanted to get out of his county as soon as possible. It had been a major embarrassment for them. Well, good riddance. Agent Henricksen had cleared away the last of his things this morning, and the Sheriff was not sorry to see the last of him. He wanted nothing more than for all of this to go away, to fade to a distant memory that only troubled him on the occasional stormy night.

Instead, he had a constant reminder right here in the office; Sam's empty desk. The boy would be back to work next week, with barely ten days left in his internship before he and Jessica went back to school. Together.

Brian's eyes found the picture of his family perched near the phone on his desk. Jessica smiled at his from the frame. Watching her these past few days, it seemed like nothing in this entire mess had changed her. She tended Sam like a faithful nurse, and they were as close as ever. Very close. A ring and white dress were in her future very soon, if Brian was any judge.

Two weeks ago, he wouldn't have been happier to hear an engagement announcement. Now, the idea chilled him. He didn't need Henricksen's grumbling to know that Sam's past wasn't done with him yet. After all, Sheriff Moore had just killed a man who left the family business ten years ago. Ten years out. Sam had only been out for three. His family would find him again, one day, or else the monsters they hunted.

And he couldn't do a damn thing about it.

The office door swung open and the Sheriff looked up to see the stern figure of John Winchester standing in front of him. Brian rose to his feet, and they shared a look, each evaluating the other. After a moment, John nodded, having decided something. He stepped forward and dropped into a seat without being asked.

"So. Our children are going to get married."

No one had made an announcement. There hadn't even been rumors of a ring. But both fathers knew.

"It looks very likely," Brian agreed. "Unless you will try to convince Sam to go with you. Jessica says you haven't visited yet." She'd been fuming about it yesterday. Sam, waiting at the window like a puppy waiting for its master to come home.

"I tried to stop it. I tried to keep him with me. Keep him safe. But Sam-"

"Sam doesn't take orders." Brian knew this well. He'd seen the way Sam responded to the more aggressive personalities around the office. Sam would jump in front of moving traffic, just because someone told him not to, and damn the consequences.

"I'm trying to get ahead of this thing. I think I've got a good chance."

Brian didn't dare ask was 'this thing' meant. He truly didn't want to know, and did it really matter?

"I'm trusting you to look after my son."

Brian felt a jolt at these words, and stared at John. "Me? He's going back to college in a few weeks. He'll be an hour's drive away."

John pulled out a business card and laid it on the desk. "This is my number. Call if you hear anything out of the ordinary. I know Jim told you what to look for."

That he had, and more. Brian stared at the card. "This says you work for the FBI."

John grinned. "Yeah, that it does. But the number will get you to me. If you hear anything out of the ordinary, it doesn't matter how strange or small, you call."

Brian met John's piercing gaze. Somehow, he knew he couldn't lie to this man. If he agreed, he was signing up to protect Sam with his own life if need be. There wasn't really anything to think about. Their hearts had all been tied together months ago, when Jessica first brought this new boyfriend home. It was far to late to change that now. "I'll keep an eye on him. Are you going to say good-bye, at least? He's waiting for you."

John squirmed, for the first time looking truly uncomfortable. "That wouldn't be a good idea."

"You were ready to walk out of the hospital with him." This man was a puzzle of conflicting emotions. Brian was glad he lived a simple life. He didn't think he would figure John Winchester out if they saw each other every day for the next fifty years.

"I would have. But now," John shook his head. "All we'd do is fight, and we've had that fight before. There's nothing new to say."

John nodded amiably at Brian in farewell, rose wordlessly from his chair, and walked out the door.

000

Jessica walked the aisles of Lakeport's one and only craft store, searching for the correct aisle. She rarely came in here. Scrap-booking and sewing were not her strong suit. She loved to bake, and she did the occasional bit of decorating, but that was as far as she went in the homemaker arts. Crafts were better left to her aunts, and one cousin who could make anything with a bit of wire and beads.

The aisles weren't labeled, the way they were in a grocery store. She had to walk up and down each one until she found what she was looking for. She could have gotten it at Wal-Mart or eve the dollar store, but she wanted something nicer for Sam. The tattered old picture had clearly been well loved over the years, but she also wanted to make a statement. She wanted something of value to put Sam's family on display in.

There, a nice wood 5X7 frame, simple, but not cheap plastic and sturdy enough to endure a few moves. Because they were college kids still, and they moved once a year. Jessica placed the frame in her cart and rounded the corner to the check-out. A tall, bald, man stood in front of her. She stared.

"Agent Henricksen? I thought you and your team left already."

Henricksen's lip twitched in annoyance. "I had to stay and get all of the paperwork shipped off properly." He held two skeins of brightly-colored yarn in his hands, along with a crochet needle.

"You do crafts?"

Henricksen's cheeks flushed. "It's for my wife. She saw a sale online and insisted I stop."

"Oh." Jessica nodded and pursed her lips, trying not to giggle. Henricksen's eyes shifted around the store, as if checking to ensure he wouldn't be caught out by anyone else.

"You're still with him, aren't you? After all that happened, after all he did?"

Jessica lifted her chin stubbornly. "Yes, I am. I love him."

"Love hasn't got anything to do with it, little lady. Sam Winchester is a dangerous man. I told your daddy what he did during the kidnapping. Did your dad tell you?"

"I know everything I need to know about Sam Winchester. He had his chance to go home with his family, and he stayed with me."

"Yeah, true love conquers all, huh? Did you know anything about the man who was hunting him? Strickler had a wife and two kids in elementary school, and he left it all behind to come here. They never stay out, something always pulls them back in. Sam might be here with you today, but in the end, when it really comes down to it, he'll choose his family. Just you wait."

Jessica ran her finger along the edge of the picture frame. She knew Henricksen's words were calculated to scare her, but she didn't feel a thing. A firm resolve had settled into the space where fear used to reside. "There's nothing to choose, Agent Henricksen. Sam is family."

Jessica flipped her hair over her shoulder and turned away, a smile on her face because she knew it was true. This summer had made that clear. Sam was part of her family and she was part of his, and there was no untangling that, ever.

000

"Your son needs to talk to you. Come see him, call him, I don't care, but you both need this. Please, come see us."

The voice was bossy and pleading at the same time. John didn't know how women managed it. He sat in his truck and played Jessica's message again. First, the girl threw him out of the hospital. Now, she was begging him to come talk to Sam.

Strange, how they all wanted the same thing in the end. They just saw different ways of getting there. John pressed the delete button, and turned to the weather maps stretched out in the seat next to him. He had a lot of work ahead of him. He turned the key in the ignition and steered the truck onto the highway.

He had a demon to hunt.

000

Sam stared out the window of the car. A small white house with a green lawn, picket fence, and red door, looked back at him. The For Sale sign on the front step was the only blot on the otherwise postcard-worthy scene. Sam turned to Jessica, sitting in the driver's seat. "Why are we stopping here?"

They couldn't afford a house, and she knew it. Right?

Jessica smiled, a glint of mischievous laughter mocking the mild panic in his voice. "I like window shopping. You know, looking at things you know you won't buy. Yet."

 _Yet._

Her eyes sparkled, and she hopped out of the car. "Want to come take a look?" She pulled Sam out of the car, up the walk, and through the front door, where the realtor was waiting for them. Sam stared at the home as the realtor talked. Clean walls, central heating and air, no funny smells or green mold on the walls. Hardwood floors, ceiling fans, and fresh, white paint on the walls. It was like a dream had fallen out of his mind and built itself up in reality.

Sam watched Jessica ask questions, inspect the fridge and stove, and poke at the air ducts. Then the realtor retreated, and Jessica turned to him, a smile filling her face. He'd seen that look before, about two-parts excitement and one-part nerves. Why would she be nervous?

"What do you think, Sam?"

"It's great. I think. I would love to own a place like this someday."

"Someday," Jessica agreed. "I know you've got four years of law school to go. I know we won't be ready for this," she gestured at the home, "For a while. But I know it's what we both want."

It was all he had ever wanted.

"Our lives are going the same direction, Sam, and I want it to stay that way. I've met your family, you've met mine. I know you have secrets." She held up her hand to stop the words rising to his lips. "And that's ok. I don't need to know everything. I trust to you tell me what is important. I don't need to know your secrets, Sam. I just need you."

"I think I should be making this speech, Jess. On one knee, with a ring."

She giggled, and rolled her eyes. "We're broke college students. I don't need a ring. Not yet. I just want to know that we agree. We're in this for good. We'll get a ring when we can afford it. We'll stay together, no matter what else life throws at us. We'll be back here someday. I want a promise, Sam. Promise we'll be together."

He pulled her close, wrapping her in his arms. It had taken twenty-two years, but he had finally found a home. He closed his eyes, savoring the moment.

"I promise."

000

Sam lay flat on his back, the taste of cookies fresh on his tongue, the feeling of home settling into his bones. This was the life he had chosen, and it was good. He opened his eyes to see Jessica hovering above him. She was oddly still, eyes wide, mouth open in a silent scream.

Scream?

Sam levered himself up on his elbows, widening his gazed. Blood dripped onto his face, from a gash in Jessica's belly. She was pinned to the ceiling, hair framing her face like a halo, arms and legs bent at odd angles. Stuck.

Just like Mom. Sam hadn't seen it, but he had heard the story. He had painted the picture in his mind, and it was exactly like this. Flames blossomed around Jessica, surrounding and engulfing her. Their heat seared Sam's skin as he cried, "No!"

Sam sat up in bed, sweating and shivering. The room around him was dark, no sign of fire, no smell of blood. Beside him, Jessica rolled over, her voice thick with sleep.

"Sam? Are you ok?"

Sam took a deep breath, then another, dispelling the vision. "Yeah. It's fine. Just a dream."

He'd faced his fears. Monsters had come and gone. The Moores had seen the worst of his family, and the best. He was still here, with Jessica, both of the ready to take the next step. There was nothing left to threaten their life together.

Mary Winchester smiled down at him from her perch on the beside table, the old photograph displayed proudly in the new frame Jessica had brought home. It was a statement, though she hadn't said a word when she set it out. Sam's family was part of their lives, and she accepted that. She wasn't going to ask him to turn his back on his past or forget where he came from. She accepted all of him.

Even the parts she didn't know about. _I don't need to know your secrets, Sam. I just need you_.

With those words, she had freed them both of everything that went before and opened up a wide future, just waiting for them to fill it up with possibilities.

Sam settled back into the pillows. He couldn't ask more from life than he had in this moment.

It was just a dream, a remnant of the fear he'd carried around these past weeks with Strickler and then a vetala in town. A memory brought to life by the picture sitting by his bed. Just a dream.

Sam closed his eyes and went back to sleep.

 **END**

 **Note:** There you have it! This is the end if the story. I may post a little more after this, but it will be a series of episode tags to flesh out where the characters go from here. Scenes that weren't in the show, but could have been. Jessica's point of view of the Pilot episode. Henricksen will have a chat with Sam in Folsom Prison Blues. Possibly an additional scene for Jus in Bello as well.

I hope you enjoyed reading this story as much as I enjoyed writing it. If you are coming to this story after it has been finished, I would still love to hear from you. I love the community of writers and readers here. Thanks so much for making it to the end of this journey with me.

 **Please Review!**


	24. Afterwards

**Afterwards**

Scenes from "Pilot"

Dad's on a hunting trip, and he hasn't been home in a few days.

Jessica watched Sam pack his bag, barely hearing his words of reassurance. He pulled out a giant, curved knife that she hadn't even known was in their house and settled it in his bag. She knew he had secrets he didn't want to talk about, she knew he had a violent past. She knew what a 'hunting trip' meant, even if Sam didn't realize it.

"Don't worry, he's probably just holed up in a cabin with Jim, Jack and Jose."

 _Your dad isn't on a drinking binge, and you know it_. He was either dead or trapped by some kind of monster and Sam was preparing to go off with his brother to fight it. Whatever 'it' might be. Suddenly, Jessica wished she had asked that priest from Minnesota a lot more questions.

She wished she had talked to Sam about what she knew. He had seemed so determined to stay away from everything that had to do with monsters, she knew he wouldn't like her knowing. So she had kept the knowledge tucked away. If she mentioned it now, she might start a fight. She would certainly upset him. And she didn't want him going to a hunt distracted.

So she kept her mouth shut.

 _Don't leave me_. She wanted to scream. After all, the last time Sam was near his dad, the man had tried to walk him out of her life without warning. Dean and John clearly wanted Sam back. Jessica wanted Sam, but she wanted nothing to do with that life. With monsters, living in motels, killing things. She thought Sam wanted nothing to do with it either, but the cold, determined look in his eyes scared her.

"Don't forget your interview on Monday." All she could do was remind him of the life he had here, remind him why he left the rest behind.

"I'll be here in time. I promise." His kiss was too short, and then he was gone.

Jessica watched Sam leave and hugged herself tight. There was nothing she could to do stop him, nothing she could to do change his past. She could hardly blame him for wanting to help his father. She just hoped that he would come home. Last time something like this happened, he nearly hadn't.

 _He will come home_.

There was no way Jessica was going to go back to sleep. She flipped on the kitchen light, opened the recipe box, and started pulling out the ingredients for Sam's favorite cookies. She couldn't go with him, and she couldn't help him, so she would do the only thing she could; make sure home was warm and welcoming when he returned.

000

Dean watched Sam listen to the recorded message from dad, hoping that this would work. There was more the message, a piece he hadn't let Sam hear. _We're all in danger. Get your brother out of Palo Alto for the next few days. There are demon signs all over._

Sam never would have come with Dean if he just asked. They had been down that road before. So Dean had two options: tie his brother up, or lie. The fight in the apartment had made it clear that option one may or may not work. So, option two. Dean hated it, he always hated it, but he had never hesitated to lie to Sam when necessary. He'd done it so often over the yeas, Sam had never learned to tell the difference.

It took a little coaxing, but it worked. Dean watched Sam settled next to him in the Impala and couldn't help but smile. Dad's cryptic message, the demon signs in this town, it all faded away. Things were as they should be. He had his brother back, if only for one hunt.

In the rearview, Dean could see Jessica standing in the window, watching them drive away. He felt a twinge of worry, but quickly brushed it aside. With Sam gone, the demons would have no interest in her.

000

Pain. It filled her body, seeming to pour through every vein, even though it was only her belly that was injured. Seeping blood all over the floor. From the ceiling. Jessica stared down a the bed she shared with Sam, feeling her limbs slowly growing numb and cold as the blood carried her life away.

 _Are you sure about this_? Her father had asked the day they left Lakeport to return to Stanford for the semester. Sam isn't safe to be around.

She hadn't really known it was true, then. She had thought it was over, despite the warning from Agent Henricksen. She knew that Sam believe in monsters, but she wasn't ever entirely sure she did. Until now, as she stared down at Brady's black eyes and watched him laughing.

"Would you have stayed with him, if you knew the truth? Would you have stayed, if you knew it could end like this?" Brady stood under her, arms crossed, admiring his handiwork. Only it wasn't Brady, there was something inside of him, something evil betrayed by the black in his eyes.

Jessica twitched, but her limbs were pinned to the ceiling. She tried to talk, but her mouth wouldn't respond. She was losing strength.

What would she have done, had she really believed the danger? She didn't know. She could never know. All she knew what she didn't want Sam to see this. She closed her eyes as the darkness filled the edges of her vision.

 _Not like this! I wanted life, a long, happy life_. All their dreams had been stolen. There was no getting them back. She knew enough about medicine to know that even though she was still alive, she was past saving. Her last thought was of what Sam would see. He would be home soon. Please, let it be over before he gets here. Please, don't make him watch this.

"Jess?" She heard his voice calling her name. Brady cackled, and leapt out the window. Jessica fought the darkness that ate the edges of her vision, fought for one last moment to see him. Sam. There he was, cookie in hand, smile on his face, lying back with his eyes closed.

 _Don't open them. Go to sleep, don't see this_. Jessica felt her mouth hanging open in a scream that would not come.

Sam's eyes opened, and horror filled his face. Jessica felt hot flames burst around her, and then her vision went dark. She didn't feel the heat. She didn't feel anything.

 _I'm sorry, Dad_. She felt warmth, as if embraced by her family in a giant group hug, and opened her eyes to find herself at home, Sam's arms wrapped around her, Jenna laughing and wearing a red boa, Dad patting his stomach and Mom brining a tray of Christmas cookies into the room. The day she'd first brought Sam home. Their last Christmas all together.

She had a brief memory of fire and pain and worry, but it was rapidly fading away. She laughed at something her sister said, and let herself melt into the eternal moment.

000

Brian's hands ached. They longed to hold his daughter, even if she was cold and dead, just to make this feel more real. The way she had died, burned in that terrible fire, there was nothing left to hold or touch one last time. All he had for the funeral was an urn sitting on a table next to her picture. Now, he sat on a stool, greeting a long line of mourners who all wanted to shake his hand and express their sympathy.

There was an empty space beside him, reserved for Sam.

"Everyone grieves differently, dear." Sandy placed a gentle hand on his shoulder. "Don't blame him."

Brian swallowed hard and nodded. She was right, of course. It was why he had married her. She had a way of shining light on dark moments, of seeing when his thoughts would take an unhealthy turn, and pulling him back. But she couldn't carry the weight of this burden, the questions that lingered. There were so many odd things about the fire, and Sam had barely been able to look any of them in the eye. He stayed with his brother and searched the shadows as if seeking to find the murder there.

Which he was, Brian had realized. Sam was hunting for a monster, because he believed a monster killed Jessica. Brian had tried to call Sam's father, but there was no answer. Once again, Brian was left to fill that role.

He moved out of the greeting line and ducked into a closed-off alcove in the corner of the funeral home. Sure enough, Sam was there, elbows on knees, head bent. His brother Dean stood in the corner, arms crossed, like a body guard lurking in the background. Which he might be, if the monster had really been after Sam.

Brian sat down next to the young man and placed a hand on his shoulder. "I don't know where we'll go from here, Sam, but today, you're still part of this family. Do you want to join us?"

Sam's hands clenched, and he shook his head. "I want her back. If I had known, if I-"

"It's not your fault." As much as he wanted someone to be angry at, Brian knew that much. Sam's presence may have drawn the monster, but he hadn't wanted this. "You couldn't have know."

Jenna peeked her head around the corner, the smell of warm fruit preceding her. She clutched a round pie pan in her hands, filled with half-browned pastry and dripping gooey filling. "Sam? There you are. I wanted-I wanted to do something for you. Because-I know you miss her too." Jenna held out the lopsided pie. "Your brother said you love pie, back when he was watching the apartment when you were in the hospital. He called everyone, to see if someone could make one for you. I thought, well, I've never made a pie before. It's not pretty, but I tried a bit." There was indeed a small chuck missing. "It tastes good."

"Pie?" Sam looked up, confused. Dean stepped forward and reached for the pan.

"Thanks. I'll look after it for him."

Jenna's eyes narrowed warily at Dean, but she nodded. "Mom said it's ok to invite Sam to Christmas, if he wants to come. If not…I get it. But you can come too."

Dean nodded his thanks and Jenna ducked back out of the room. With a glance at Sam and Brian, Dean followed her.

Brian could hear Sam's breath start to shudder, and he wrapped an arm around the young man's shoulders. "There's no shame in tears, Sam," he said softly. "They are necessary."

Sam closed his eyes, and cried freely. Brian sat with him, arm on his shoulder, as Sam cried himself out. It wouldn't surprise him if he never saw Sam after today. Dean had been hovering very close, and he knew the older brother planned to take Sam away from here as soon as possible. Without Jessica to tie him down, Sam would go. He feared that if Sam left, he would never come back.

He hoped he wouldn't. If Sam was going to re-enter his father and brother's world, a world where he hunted and killed things that weren't human…Brian wanted nothing more than to bring Sam home with him. To stuff him back in the office, to keep him close and hope the monsters stayed away. But if Sam was going to be part of that world, he didn't want the rest of his family anywhere near it. He didn't want to be anywhere near it. So he sat while Sam cried, and he wished the world were different. But he didn't invite him to return for Christmas, or anything else. They parted in silence, and Brian knew it was for the last time.

000

The Impala sat at a filling station just outside of Palo Alto. Dean had topped off the tank and was waiting for Sam, who had gone to the bathroom to change out of his suit. He had a whole collection of California clothes, meant for warm weather and sitting in classrooms. They would wear out soon enough, but for now, he still looked like a college boy. Dean sighed. That hopeful college boy was rapidly vanishing in a haze of anger that Dean didn't know how to hold back. And it was all his fault.

Dean could smell Jenna's pie in the backseat. In all his life, there was never a pie that he hesitated to eat. He could down the whole thing in one sitting if he really wanted to. But this pie had sat untouched for two days. Sam had barely spoken ten words in that time. He felt guilty, and Dean couldn't do anything about it.

Even though the whole thing was his fault. Another body to weigh down his conscience. He had know there was danger. Dad had told him. He'd done what he needed to do to get Sam out of town, as ordered. He should have thought about what could happen while they were gone.

But Dean would drown if he thought about the could-have-beens too long. On every hunt, something went wrong. Every monster they faced killed someone that he couldn't save. If Dean let the what-ifs have a space in his head, there would be nothing left.

That was why he cranked the music, and didn't talk about his feelings. Feelings didn't help get the job done. He eyed the pie in the backseat, and his stomach grumbled. Dean at the pie straight pan. It was gooey and sweet. The crust tasted a little like sugary cardboard, but the peaches were tangy and full of cinnamon. He had finished half the pie by the time Sam exited the bathroom, in jeans and sneakers, his suit vanished. Sam settled into his seat, then turned to stare at Dean, whose fingers were covered in peachy goo. "Hey! That's mine!"

Dean held the pan close and took another bite. "Dude, you said it yourself, you don't like pie."

Sam rolled his eyes, but there was a hint of a smile on his face. It was all Dean needed. There was hope. Sammy was hurting now, but he would be ok. Dean set the pie aside and started the car. "Ready to hit the road?"

Sam nodded. "Let's go find Dad."


	25. Afterwards: Henricksen

The rest of Henricksen's story:

 **Scenes set during "Nightshifter"**

Milwaukee was not Henricksen's idea of a prime assignment, but it was better than white collar anywhere. He'd remained on homicide after the Lakeport disaster, thankfully, but been transferred here to the cold side of nowhere. He didn't know how people managed the winters, and if it was this cold here, why did Canada have any population at all?

"Victor. Chief is looking for someone to lead a team to bring in a guy named Winchester. You familiar with them? Your name is on this file." The chief's administrative assistant stopped by Henricksen's desk, a large manila file in hand.

"Winchester? That's me. Where did he pop up? What's the situation?"

The assistant nodded to the TV across the room. "Seems to have been a hostage, but took over the heist when the original hostage taker was killed."

"What?" Even for Winchesters, that was a new level of crazy. Henricksen stared at the TV, and saw Dean Winchester staring back at him. He'd barely glimpsed the older brother from a distance, back in California, but he remembered a very clever teen from Illinois. This man had had nearly ten years to train and gain more experience. "Get me the best team you got. Get me the blueprints and security schematics for the bank. We've got him! Is his brother in there, too?"

"Brother?" The assistant shrugged. "No idea. I'll tell the chief you're on the case, take any agent you need."

000

Gone. Henricksen stared at the men shivering on the floor beneath him, stripped to their boxers. There was no point in running. The Winchesters were long gone. But they would turn up again, and when they did, Henricksen would be there. It was only a matter to time, and luck. He knew how to play the odds, and one day or another their luck would run out and he would have the Winchesters behind bars.

Not that their presence in a jail cell would help him understand all of the crazy that happened around them. He knew they weren't responsible for all of it. They showed up in a town after the first murders were committed. But they were always there for the last.

I don't need answers. I stop criminals. That's enough.

His ex always said he was a terrible liar.

 **Scene from "Folsom Prison Blues"**

The orange prison uniform was scratchy and uncomfortable. For about the hundredth time that day, Sam cursed Dean for coming up with this idea, and himself for agreeing. He shifted uncomfortably and looked warily at the grimy phone in the visitor's booth. He'd seen where some of those guys put their hands, and wasn't thrilled about touching that phone. He expected his visitor would be their defense attorney, and Sam didn't see the point.

Sam felt his stomach curdle when a familiar bald head settled across the glass from him. Agent Henricksen. Why was this guy always chasing them? Ok, Sam hadn't been on his best behavior back in Roseville, the first time they had met, and the agent had been left with some unanswered questions in Lakeport, but this vendetta was getting old. Sam considered just getting up and walking out, but fear kept him in place. The agent was doing his best to take Dean away for good. Sam needed to hear whatever threats were in store, just in case any might be true.

He picked up the phone gingerly. Henricksen grinned, like a cat looking at a bird in a cage. "Hello, Sam. Been a while."

Sam just glared, waiting. Henricksen continued unruffled. "Last time we met, you were on the other side of this equation. What happened? You had a bright future, Sam. Could have had a full ride, from what I heard. Why'd you give it all up?"

Sam burned at the words, his eyes boring through the glass with enough heat to melt it away so he could punch Henricksen in his smug face. "If you know all that, then you know why I left."

The smug look fell away, and the agent had the good grace to appear truly genuine. "I am sorry about your girlfriend, Sam. She was a good person, by all accounts."

"She was wonderful, and you have no right to talk about her."

"So Jessica dies, and you go on a road trip with your brother. Awfully convenient, don't you think?"

"Convenient how?" Sam already had a suspicion about that. With the interest the yellow-eyed demon had shown in him and the other psychic children, Sam had no doubt that Jessica had been murdered on purpose. To get to him.

"Your brother comes to town the day before she dies? Sam." Henricksen shook his head and tut-tutted. "Your dad and your brother, they were ready to kidnap you right out of a hospital to get you back on the road with them. A few months later they show up-"

"You shut up!" Sam yelled, rising to his feet. The guard monitoring the conversation stepped forward in a warning and Sam placed his butt back in the chair. "You don't know anything about my family, you don't have any idea what's really happening."

"No? Why don't you enlighten me, Sam?"

This time it was Sam's turn to roll his eyes and shake his head. "You wouldn't believe me."

"Try me. You haven't got anything to lose, Sam. I'm here for your brother, but you could still walk away. I know you were in that bank, but I don't have any evidence that you did the killing. You tell me what really happened, you tell me about your brother, and you can walk out of here a free man."

I'll walk out of here without your help. Sam laughed. "You want me to turn in my brother? You people never change. What makes you so convinced that he's bad? You didn't have a problem with him in Lakeport."

"I didn't have any evidence that he had killed anyone yet."

"That's because he's never killed anyone."

Henricksen was impervious to Sam's glare. He'd been building immunity through exposure. He didn't twitch, didn't growl or roll his eyes, didn't show any outward signs of getting riled at all. He just asked, as if asking about something as mundane as the weather, "So, did you kill the people in that bank?"

Sam stared, stunned. He was used to the idea that Dean had been framed, that there was good reason the cops thought Dean had committed murder, and more than once. But himself? No one had ever thought he could be capable of murder. Until this federal agent, with the tenacity of a bull-dog and his pride still hurting.

Henricksen read the look on Sam's face. "Huh. Thought not. But that's the only other option here, Sam. You were the only other person around."

"There was someone else."

"Yeah? Who? Your daddy? Where is John these days?"

The question hit Sam like a kick in the gut. Henricksen's eyebrows climbed as he watched the reaction, and he didn't even need Sam to say the words. "He's dead."

"Did you see it happen? Was Dean with him?"

Sam's jaw clenched. Only the watchful eyes of the guard kept him in his seat. "You don't know anything about my family, and you don't know anything about me."

"So tell me."

Sam's eyes narrowed. Really, what did he have to lose? He was already in jail, and either their escape plan would work, or Henricksen would take Dean away. "Demons. We're running away from demons. They killed my mother, they killed my father. Have you noticed, agent, that in these strings of murders we're connected to, we are never in town when it starts? It's because we aren't hurting anyone."

"So your brother likes to chase serial killers, pull a copycat kill, and then leave."

Sam sucked in a breath. "You'll do anything to avoid seeing the truth, won't you? You don't want to know what's really out there, so you twist what you see until it fits what you understand."

"I could say the same about you, Sam. You ride around the country with a serial killer, and you really believe he's innocent."

"My brother didn't kill anyone!"

"There's no such thing as demons!"

Sam and Henricksen were both on their feet, phones dangling from their chords, shouting through the glass.

"Hey!" The guard was moving forward. "Winchester! Cool it. This visit is over."

Henricksen's voice was muffled through the glass. "You left you family for a reason. Open your eyes, Sam."

Sam turned away. He didn't have any choice. The guards were closing in. It was time to go back to his cell, and hope Deacon could make good on their escape before it was too late.

 **Scene from "Jus in Bello"**

Henricksen found Sam in the store room of the Sheriff's station, pulling bags of rock salt off of their shelf. He watched the kid for a moment. They were back in a Sheriff's station, their story come full circle. But if Henricksen hadn't known him before, he wouldn't have recognized Sam Winchester as the intern from Lakeport.

Henricksen shook his head. 'I don't get it."

"Get what? Salt?" Sam shoved a bag toward Henricksen. "You don't need to understand it. No one does. There are lots of theories, but hunters don't really care. We just know that it works."

"No, not that." Henricksen let the bag rest at his feet, still staring at Sam. "I don't get you. You knew about all of this, but you were just going to settle down and ignore it all."

Sam didn't have to ask what 'all of this' meant. His mouth twitched in a half-smile, like he'd had this conversation before. "Yeah. I was going to ignore it all and have a normal life."

"How can you do that? Knowing what's out there?"

Sam shrugged. "It's not that hard. Everyone knows serial killers are out there, but they don't all have to be FBI agents."

Henricksen blinked. Logic according to Sam Winchester always caught him off guard. "Yeah, but not everyone knows about monsters. If you know about it, how can you stand by and let people die?"

Sam scowled. "People die whether I hunt or not. I deserve a better life." Sam pushed past Henricksen, a bag of salt in both hands. "Would your life be better, Victor, if you weren't always stressed and working late hours? Would you still be married, maybe have a few kids, be happy."

Henricksen watched Sam leave, and shook his head. He knew the truth, understood the missing pieces of the Winchester puzzle. But it had changed nothing between him and Sam. It was comforting, in an odd sort of way.

Victory picked up his bag of salt and sent up a wary prayer. After all, if demons were real, maybe the good guys were, too. And they would need all the help they could get if they were going to survive the night.


	26. Afterwards: Sheriff Moore

**Afterwards: Sheriff Moore**

Working in law enforcement, Brian Moore is certain to hear about it when the Winchesters are wanted by the FBI...

Tag to "Nightshifter"

"Hey, boss. You need so see this. Latest update to the "Most Wanted" list from the FBI." Deputy Mann laid a sheet of paper, still warm from the fax machine, on his desk. Brian stared at the black-and-white photos there, the images blurred from being copied too many times. It didn't stop Brian from recognizing the face immediately.

"What?"

"That's right, boss. Who would have thought, huh?" Deputy Mann walked away looking far to pleased with himself. Well, all three Winchesters had managed to embarrass him. He was probably dreaming of getting them back in cuffs.

Brian stared a the poster, letting the message sink in. Sam and Dean Winchester, wanted for murder.

'Murder.' The word was used when one human killed another, but it wasn't the only word. 'Execution' was another. So was 'self defense', and 'war'. What made the difference? Brian had killed once himself, shot a man down on purpose, but it wasn't murder. He'd never quite been able to reconcile that act with the word used for it; 'justified.' They all involved the same action; point a gun and pull a trigger. The same act that had earned him an award could land someone in jail for life. It was the identity of the person who died that made the difference.

Murder involved the innocent. Justified defense involved the guilty, the dangerous. Monsters. Of course, the world didn't know about monsters. They wouldn't understand the difference, wouldn't know how to interpret the action.

Because Sam Winchester was not a murderer. Brian had seen in when he saw Sam kill. Two years ago, and he still remembered that moment clearly. Sam did not kill the innocent.

The fax from the FBI had come with orders to post the image in a public space, so that anyone who saw the wanted men could call in their location.

Brian crumpled the paper and dropped it into the waste paper basket by his desk. Monster, murder, victim, guilty, words didn't matter much to him anymore. He'd known a young man who loved his daughter, and he didn't care what label others used.

000

 **Tag to "Jus in Bello"**

The sky was blue, full of puffy white clouds. A soft breeze rippled through the air, and somewhere in the distance, a bird was singing. She had always liked to mimic birdsong. Even before she could talk, Jessica had harmonized with the feathered friends chirping outside her nursery window. It was fitting, that they sang over her grave.

Brian laid a bunch of daisy's by the headstone, and sat down in the grass that covered her remains. Her smiling picture stared at him from its perch on the granite, eternally stuck at twenty-two. He pressed his fingers to her face, and sighed.

"Sam is dead. I thought you ought to know." Brian sorted through is words, processing the event as he spoke. "He was in trouble with the FBI. They didn't understand what he and his brother do, you see. I'm still not sure I do, either. But-it doesn't really matter. There was an accident, and Sam is gone."

Silence met his proclamation. Silence was all he could find here, but that didn't stop him from coming, from talking to his daughter. It didn't matter if she heard him, it just mattered that he came. "Maybe I should have tried to reach out to him, after you left us. I just didn't know how. We were both lost, you see." Brian sighed, and fiddled with the daisies that no one else would see, sitting alone on a hill full of headstones. Still, he brought them anyway. "It's been hard without you here. You were supposed to be with us a lot longer. It was supposed to be you doing this for me."

Brian shook his head and scrubbed tears from his eyes. He fished in his pocket and pulled out an old pair of socks. "Sam left these in your room. I found them a few months ago, when your mother cleared out your things. We took them to Goodwill, it's time someone else got some use out of them. But these-." Brian held out the socks.

Brian didn't really know what he had been thinking. He'd stared at the phone for hours, but hadn't called. Really, would Sam come see him just to pick up a pair of old socks? But he hadn't thrown them away, either. Then, he'd seen the news on the TV yesterday, and he knew what they were for. He dug into the warm dirt, pulling up grass and weeds to make a shallow hole. He'd called the FBI about the body, to ask to bury the remains, but they had refused to release anything to him. All Brian had left of Sam was a pair of old socks. He placed them in the shallow hole and covered them over again. It wasn't much of a grave, but it was all he could do.

"I hope he's with you, wherever you are." Brian placed the daisies on the hole to cover the messy patch of dirt, dusted off his hands, and rose to his feet. Birdsong echoed around him, but somehow, his heart didn't ache as much anymore. He nodded, satisfied. Sam and Jessica were together, at peace, at last.

000

 **Tag to "The Devil You Know"**

Sam stared at the blood on his hands. It was not a new sight, and it no longer bothered him. He was stained in more ways than he could count, demon blood on his hands, and in his veins. It was a darkness he could never wash out, never escape. He'd almost forgotten how it felt, to have that hope of leaving this all behind someday. Then, Crowley and brought Brady into his life.

Except it wasn't Brady. Sam's friend had died years ago. This was just the black-eyed monster wearing his meat. This wasn't Brady's blood on his hands.

Except it was. He might not have killed Brady today, but he'd been the cause of his death so long ago. There were multiple old wounds on the demon, it was impossible to tell when Brady's soul had left his body. Sam hoped it had been sooner rather than later. He knew what it felt like, to watch your own hands commit a murder you couldn't stop.

Had Brady been awake to see himself killing Jess?

Jessica. Sam closed his eyes and curled his shoulders against the chill of the memory. She had been warmth and light and a second home, but now, thinking of her only made his blood run cold. Jessica. Brady. How many more had died because of the yellow-eyed demon's plans for him?

How hard had the demon laughed, watching Sam play house with his girlfriend, knowing that it was only a matter of time until he burned it all down?

A normal life. Sam closed his eyes against the dark city-scape surrounding him, perched on a bench in the motel parking lot, and pictured the lake, sparkling water, warm beach. The quad at Stanford, full of students. Lakeport, sleepy and unsuspecting. It was still there, still innocent and unscathed by this mess Sam had unleashed on the world.

Sam scrolled through the contacts in his phone. He still carried every number he had ever acquired. Even those belonging to the dead, and people he assumed he would never see again. He found the Ms. Moore, Brian. Moore, Sandy. Moore, Jenna. They were still all there.

000

Brian Moore sat on his couch, sipping iced tea and watching baby Jessica play on the floor. His granddaughter, named after the aunt she would never meet, was barely one year old, and liked to put everything in her mouth. Sandy had installed a series of locks on all cabinets below waist level, and insisted that all things small enough to be swallowed be kept well out of reach. She was more protective of this grandchild than she had been of her own babies, back when they were young and reckless and didn't know how much hurt the world had to offer.

The Moores were more cautious with everything these days. They now had locks on the doors and a new home security system. Brian had also installed a few other protective measures, sigils drawn on the underside of the rug, or the bottom of the windowsill where no one would notice. Not even his wife. He had never told anyone about that conversation with Pastor Jim. But he had kept the man's phone number, and after losing Jessica...well, he had taken action to ensure that would never happen again.

Losing a child was not something he could bear again. Jenna's daughter burbled, making pleasant baby noises, and smiled up at him. She was so like her dead aunt, but so different. Watching her was like watching a distorted time warp. He could almost see his oldest baby again, rolling on the carpet, back when the world was safe and monsters only existed in his imagination.

The phone rang, a number Brian did not recognize. It didn't start with 1-800, so it was less likely to be a sales call. With a frown, Brian picked up the handset. "Moore residence."

"Sheriff? Mr. Moore, I-"

Brian felt as if all the air had been sucked from the room. He knew that voice. It was a voice he hadn't expected to hear before. He had seen the news, reviewed the reports. Agent Henricksen and his quarry had died in a Sheriff's station in Colorado over two years ago. But the voice was unmistakable. "Sam?"

"Yes, sir. I—maybe I shouldn't have called."

"No, it's fine." Brian scrubbed at his eyes, but the world around him remained unchanged. He was still holding the phone, Sam on the other end of the line. He didn't know whether to laugh, cry, or run away screaming. Could this be Sam's ghost? Or was it really him? After all, his brother had faked his death in St. Louis. Questions scattered his thoughts, but reflex kicked in, and he pegged the slurred sound in the young man's voice.

"Sam, have you been drinking?"

"A little."

"How have you been? I saw the FBI most wanted list, I saw the news in Colorado. I thought you were dead."

There was a pause, and Sam let out a breath. "That. Don't tell the FBI we're not dead, would you?"

"I'm pretty sure they wouldn't believe me if I tried."

For some reason, Sam found this funny. He chuckled. "Oh, that's the story of my life."

There was a darkness in Sam's tone that worried Brian. He could slam the phone down now, to make sure that whatever new tragedy Sam faced could not touch his family. If he were a different man.

"Why did you call, Sam? What's happening?" Have you really turned into a serial killer? It wasn't the kind of thing one said out loud. Brian opened his mouth to say it anyway, but Sam spoke first.

"I was just thinking about Jessica. I wanted you to know I'm sorry."

"We've been over this, Sam. Jessica's death wasn't your fault."

"I got him."

Brian blinked. The statement was so certain and vicious, he almost wasn't sure he was talking to the same person. "Got him?"

"The thing—the guy that did it, that killed Jess. I killed him today."

Well, that explained the drunken reminiscence. "Did you?" One kill. Not a serial killer, then. Yet. Brian schooled his voice to remain calm. "I saw that you and your brother have been killing a lot."

"It's not what you think."

"I know."

"No, you don't. I can't-"

"I know, Sam. I know you, and your brother, and your father, and your friends, kill monsters. I saw the demons in the middle of that storm the day I killed Strickler. Your friend Jim explained a few things to me."

Sam exhaled slowly. "Oh. Well-huh. You knew, and you never said anything?"

"What was there to say? It didn't change anything, not between you and Jessica."

"I should have told her. The demon killed her because of me."

"We don't need to blame anyone for the past, Sam. You loved her and you did the best you could for her. You couldn't expect her to believe in something like that, and you had every reason to hope she would never learn what's really out there. I'm not disappointed that there's one less monster killing people, but Sam-don't do anything out of guilt. Move on. Live your life. It's not too late."

Brian could hear the swish of liquid and Sam's gulps as he downed more of his alcohol of choice. "Yes it is. I let something bad out into the world. I didn't mean to, but that doesn't matter. I'm going to make it right."

Brian's entire body tensed. No! Whatever had gone wrong, whatever Sam had in mind to fix it, it didn't sound good. "Sam-"

"Thanks for everything, Mr. Moore. It meant a lot."

The line went dead. Brian was left clutching the phone, swimming in a sea of questions worse than before. Baby Jessica tugged on his pantlegs, pulling herself up to a standing position to drool on his knee. He reached down and settled her on his lap, letting her warm, squirming presence fill up the hole in his heart that suddenly reminded him of everything he had lost.

000

 **Tag to "Slash Fiction"**

Twenty dead in Jericho. Diner bathed in blood. Spree killers move across the nation. The headlines stuck in Brian's head, one after the other. He couldn't turn on the TV or open the newspaper without hearing about the brothers Winchester and their trail of blood.

The picture, in full color on the front page, showed a tall man with pointed features, long, flowing hair, and sharp eyes. Brian stared at it, trying to see the face of the young man who had worked as an intern in the Sheriff's office. There was hardly a trace of that boy left. Sandy had passed over the image without recognizing Sam or Dean, flipping to her Dear Abbey column and refusing to read the bloody highlights of crimes committed far away from her home. Brian was glad she didn't care to hear about the news. She would surely have recognized the name.

No one recognized the image. No one in town asked Brian about Sam, no one whispered in the corners when he wasn't looking. They didn't connect Sam the intern with Sam the serial killer. The thought never even crossed their minds.

But Brian couldn't chase the thought away. This was the second time, after all. It was too much to explain away. Yes, the monsters they killed could look very human. But shooting everyone in the bank vault? Opening fire in a diner? Brian wanted to believe that Sam would not do something like that, but he couldn't deny the possibility. He'd heard murder in Sam's voice that night on the phone. Something in him had changed, and not for the better.

There was no way to know what was happening. He'd tried to reach Pastor Jim, and found out that the priest was dead years ago. There was no one to answer his questions.

And then he turned on the TV and saw that they were dead. Again. Bodies burned beyond recognition. Again.

Dean Winchester, dead three times now. Sam, dead twice. No, Brian didn't believe it. He didn't know what to believe. These little bits of information only took him on an emotional roller-coaster, and it was making him sick to his stomach. He turned the TV off, and put the paper away. There would be no more questions. That chapter of his life was closed. The Winchesters and their monsters had nothing to do with the Moores anymore. He had buried what was left of Sam with Jessica. Dead or not, he was gone. It was time to move on.

000

 **NOTE:** That's it folks! This will be my final update on this story. Thanks so much for reading. Please review!

That being said, this is not the end of Sam and Sheriff Moore's story. I will be writing a short story "Return to Lakeport." Something is killing people by Clear Lake. Brian Moore knows it isn't human, but he retired years ago and the current Sheriff isn't listening to his warnings. Then, a pair of FBI agents arrive in town...

I will work on "Return to Lakeport" when I am done with "Corn, Pie, and the FBI". Please check it out! It is about agent Henricksen's first encounter with teenage Sam and Dean.


	27. Sequel is up!

This is a note to let you know that I have started working on the sequel to Summer Job, called Return to Lakeport. It takes place twelve years later. A string of strange deaths at the lake causes Brian Moore to call on the only hunter he knows; Sam. Moores and Winchesters meet again.


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